


Aziraphale Falls to Pieces

by JamHande



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Depression, Eating Disorders, Out of Body Experiences, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Crowley, Therapy, Yoga, anger issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2019-08-02
Packaged: 2020-07-12 11:54:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19945741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JamHande/pseuds/JamHande
Summary: Aziraphale is left alone to deal with millennia of repressed trauma.





	1. Aziraphale Is Broken

**Author's Note:**

> "If you had not have fallen  
> Then I would not have found you" -- Willie Nelson

“I’m in need of a good long sleep, Angel,” yawned Crowley. He stretched his lanky arm along the back of the couch, his chest arching forward. “Been a heck of a month.”

“Ah yes, it rather has, hasn’t it?” Aziraphale turned toward him and examined Crowley’s face closely. He saw lines there, lines that he hadn’t noticed before. Lines of fatigue, perhaps? Aziraphale longed to reach out and soothe a very sharp one in the middle of Crowley’s forehead. As his hand lifted, it stopped automatically. Aziraphale reminded himself, forcefully, that it was acceptable to touch Crowley.

Crowley didn’t speak as Aziraphale gently smoothed his forehead, but didn’t draw back either. He’d grown somewhat used to the angel’s attempts at calming him. Aziraphale felt a sort of soft wonder that this could happen without any immediate retribution. As if God herself had shrugged them both off as … lost causes, perhaps. As he basked in the good feeling of taking care of his dear friend, Aziraphale’s inner glow increased gently, until it just as suddenly stopped. An angelic flinch. 

“What’s wrong, Angel?” murmured Crowley as he gazed at his friend under hooded eyelids. 

“Not a thing, my dear. I was just thinking, why don’t we get you home so you can take a nice rest? A nap seems just the thing, as you say.” Aziraphale lifted the book from his lap, and stood. He reached out a hand and Crowley groaned, but accepted the offered help. He held Aziraphale’s hand gently, carefully, while rearranging his bones to a standing position.

“So much more difficult in human form, this moving around is,” grumbled Crowley. “I don’t suppose I could borrow that for a bit?” He gestured toward the heat lamp that Aziraphale had recently installed in the bookshop.

Aziraphale beamed in pleasure. “Of course, my dear. Use it as long as you wish. Let’s take it now, anything else you think you’ll be needing during your rest?”

“Plants might need tending, if they don’t behave themselves.” Crowley’s eyes had drooped nearly shut now. Aziraphale picked up the lamp in one hand while guiding his friend gently toward the shop door with the other.

“Any idea how long you’ll need? Naturally I will pop in from time to time, check on the plants.” _And you._ Aziraphale summoned a miracle, which seemed to be getting a bit more difficult these days ( _God must be angry with me. Nonsense, shake it off, Aziraphale)_ and sped them directly to Crowley’s flat. 

“Just a month or two,” yawned Crowley. The poor man was barely able to stand up and already showing signs of scaling on his skin. 

Aziraphale murmured gently to him “Go ahead, just relax while I get this set up.” The angel politely turned away while the transformation occurred; he took the lamp into the bedroom and positioned it at what looked to be the comfiest corner of the bed. He smoothed the duvet and checked all of the baseboards for signs of gnawing. It wouldn’t do to have a small visitor creep in and entice Crowley to a mid-nap snack. 

He stood in the room and breathed deeply, if jaggedly. Would Crowley be comfortable enough here? Would anything disturb him? Finally, Aziraphale seemed to accept that the setup was good enough, and walked back to the main room. Crowley was fully himself, lying very still in a patch of sunlight from the window. Aziraphale gently gathered the snake in his arms ( _oh do be careful Aziraphale, now’s not the time for your stupid clumsiness)_ and carried him softly to the bed. He set Crowley down on the comfy bed corner, under the full heat of the lamp. “You’ll sleep well here, I think,” he whispered. The only response he noticed was a slight flick of the tongue, a quick silky slither into a more comfortable position, and what sounded like a distinctly human sigh.

Aziraphale tiptoed out of the room. He checked the plant room, walking through their midst lovingly, sending water where it was needed. The plants responded to him gratefully, if with a touch of confusion. “There now, you all seem to be settled in. I’ll try to be back to check on you later. Please do behave yourselves … ” Aziraphale trailed off, feeling a bit silly.

He took one last look around the flat. All seemed quiet. No sign of traps, no sign of spies. ( _Traps? Spies?)_ Aziraphale firmly pushed all worries out of his head. He headed back to his shop. He thought gladly of all the books he had piled up to read. All sorts of wonderful new adventures that Young Adam had thought of. What fun it will be to discover how an eleven year old Antichrist’s mind works, he thought.

As he stepped out of the tube station, he passed his local bakery. Perhaps a treat was in order. He stepped into the shop, inhaling deeply the familiar comforting smells of sugar and yeasty bread. Louis, the bakery’s owner and master baker, was behind the counter. The man was a genius, but Aziraphale noticed that he whistled without tune or rhythm as he filled the glass cases with fresh goods. He nevertheless appeared completely content and greeted Aziraphale with a gap-toothed grin.

“Ah Mr. Fell! What a pleasure to see you today. I’ve just finished a batch of some delightful apricot scones. Would you like a sample?” The man beamed at him expectantly. A sudden weariness centered in Aziraphale’s chest. He wanted to be home.

“No need for a sample my good fellow. I’m sure they are quite delectable. I’ll take a dozen, please.” ( _And quickly.)_

“Of course! Perhaps a baker’s dozen for my favorite customer. Having company, are we?” Louis began to fill a waxy bag with the treats, looking over at Aziraphale, seeming rather inordinately happy that he would have friends to share with.

“Ah. Yes. Company, quite.” Aziraphale was flustered. ( _A dozen scones, REALLY, Aziraphale.)_ “Always good to have some of your famous treats on hand for visitors that pop in. I’m always sure to tell them where I purchased them, of course. I wouldn’t take credit for making them myself, naturally.” Aziraphale felt he was babbling and closed his mouth abruptly.

Louis smiled serenely and handed over the bag. “Anything else, monsieur?” Aziraphale dropped an excessive amount of coins into the man’s outstretched hand.

“I think that’s sufficient for now, Louis. Thanks so much for these.” Aziraphale held the bag aloft, trying not to stare at the man’s unfortunate lack of teeth.

“Come back soon, Mr. Fell. I’ll have something even better for you next time. Good day to you!” Louis continued beaming his smile, now beginning to look faintly ridiculous, if Aziraphale were honest with himself ( _so judgmental, Aziraphale?)._

“Yes. I’ll be back soon. Thanks again, Louis.” Aziraphale backed towards the door, bumping into another customer entering the bakery. The bell on the door sounded loud, very loud, and Aziraphale fled down the street. “Crowley had the right idea. Must get myself home for a good rest,” he muttered to himself. 

Aziraphale walked into his shop with relief. How long has it been since I truly relaxed, he thought to himself. Years, decades even. He carefully locked the door behind him. The blinds closed themselves, out of habit. He trudged rather more slowly than was his usual to the kitchen. A cup of tea and a scone would set him to rights. A nice long soak in the tub. Perhaps all at the same time.

Aziraphale set the water on to boil. A faintly worried frown arranged itself on his face. It’s over, he told himself. No need to keep thinking about it. It’s all over, he repeated to himself as the water boiled. The whistle of the tea kettle broke through the quiet, jostling him back to the present. 

As he stood waiting for the tea to steep, Aziraphale stared out the kitchen window at the people on the street. Bustling about. Going to work, work they would moan on about endlessly. Going home to families, families they would always find fault with. Going on as if the world had never been about to end, as if it never could. _(Ungrateful buggers.)_

My, I’m grumpy … I simply must get into the bath, thought Aziraphale. He couldn’t seem to summon the energy required for a miraculously delicious bubble bath, so he went about it the human way. He took the bag of scones, the teapot, and his favorite cup with him as he trudged up the stairs. He set everything down on the floor next to the tub and turned the tap on. He sighed deeply as he started shedding clothes. 

He felt the habitual need to fold them neatly into a pile but realized he was too tired to even attempt it. Each article of clothing dropped where if fell as Aziraphale took it off. So many buttons, he thought. Whatever was I thinking with all this fiddle-faddle. He settled into the bath, finally, grateful for the warmth. He jostled a bit and water slapped over the top of the tub. He turned the tap off with a foot and reached for his tea and scones.

Oh bother. The water had spilled all over the floor. Ah well. I’ll deal with it later, he thought. Aziraphale relaxed into the water, letting the heat take some of the strain from his body. He took a bite of the apricot scone. _Delicious._ He finished it off in another two bites. A sip of tea followed. Another scone couldn’t possibly hurt could it? Aziraphale’s mind went to a blank space. As he swallowed the second scone quickly, a part of his mind realized that this blankness was a new sensation. He was too tired to analyze it. What was wrong with a rest after 6000 years of thwarting evil? 

He allowed the sensation to overtake him. The blankness faded, then scenes he hadn’t thought about in millennia pushed their way into his mind’s eye. He pictured the lovely butterflies in the garden of Eden. He remembered the playfulness of Cain and Abel when they were just children, and how they’d showed Aziraphale their new game; it mainly involved chasing each other, giggling, through a patch of sunlight. Such adorable children they were, but he could never allow them into the garden, not even to show them the wonder of the butterflies. He remembered a later scene, the moment when Cain came to him with a hand covered in blood. Aziraphale had looked at him in pain and horror, but still comforted him for the loss of his brother.

It wasn’t clear how much time had passed when Aziraphale came back to himself. He was shuddering. The bath had gone cold. He noticed with a certain amount of growing concern that the scones were gone. Did I … eat them all? He thought to himself. I don’t remember eating them all.

The shivering motivated him to stand up, get a towel, dry off. His flesh broke out in goosebumps and his teeth began chattering. He looked at the pile of clothes and knew he didn’t have the energy to put them back on. He trudged into the bedroom. He found a long flannel nightgown, the quickest possible garment to don. He threw it over his head and sank onto the bed. He wrapped himself in every scrap of blanket and quilt he had and laid there, staring at the wall. 

What is happening to me, he thought. Something is strange. Am I… could it be a human illness? He thought, with some relief, Maybe I can get the common cold now. Maybe it will pass quickly.

Aziraphale stared at the wall for an hour or two, until his angelic senses began to unwind, one by one. Until finally, after a few thousand years of internal and external vigilance, his angelic body decided to allow him rest.

He slept. He wasn’t used to it. He had never slept more than a few moments before, not in the entirety of his angelic life. His body gave itself to the mattress. While asleep, he had no control of his body and this was deeply alarming. A sense of control … of his own person, at least … had been the one constant he’d experienced through millennia of human pain, suffering, joy, and triumph. Through all the years of Heaven’s surprise inspections. Hell’s attempts to foment despair. His own attempts at thwarting. The single constant had been his own reliance on his body to maintain its presence, his own angelic presence that he had honestly never even thought about.

He had always known discorporating was a possibility. Of course it was. But it wasn’t the end of it all, not really. There was always another chance at an embodiment. If anything happened to this one, he’d just … well, get another. There’d be paperwork of course.

But as much as he was prepared for a disembodiment, he wasn’t prepared for his assigned body to falter like this. He’d maintained this body fairly well, his angelic logic reasoned. Treated it to crepes and the highest quality clothes, and soft evenings resting comfortably with his books. Why in the world was it being so difficult now?

Aziraphale slept, even as his thoughts worked. Funny, that. Was it what the humans called dreaming? What a strange experience.

He awoke hours later. His body was no longer shivering. In fact, he felt overwarm. He threw the duvet off of himself. His bones ached. What in the world… his bones ached? This was new. What causes a body’s bones to ache? Was it old age? Illness? Arthritis? He couldn’t get arthritis, he thought. He made an attempt to miracle away the ache, and fairly quickly felt better.

He got out of bed, ambled to the bathroom and made a face at the pile of rumpled clothes and the abandoned teapot. He hadn’t even emptied the tub water. ( _Really, Aziraphale! What in the world got into you last night. You weren’t even drunk.)_

A few quick miracles cared for the mess of the previous evening. Feeling better, he redressed himself methodically. Every button was neatly closed, every tie done with a perfect bow.

He took the stairs back down to the shop, and the blinds opened themselves to let in the sun. Looks like a beautiful day, thought Aziraphale. Might open the shop for a bit.

The door unlocked itself and Aziraphale fussed about happily, rearranging books and admiring covers. Last night must have been a fluke, he thought. What a dither over nothing. He chose a book that looked particularly intriguing … at least from an eleven year old’s point of view. He settled onto the couch to read it. Customers began ambling in and out of the shop. None of them were greeted, yet none of them were turned away either. A few of them glanced curiously at the oddly dressed gentleman, staring at a single page in his book as if he had turned to stone.

It wasn’t that the book was shocking, or uninteresting. He just couldn’t seem to focus on the words. His mind wandered. Again, scenes from his past popped unbidden into his mind. A fresh Angel. A raw recruit. The assemblage of the Angelic army. His chest swelling with pride as the Lord spoke to them.

“My Angels” — Said the Lord. “My most beautiful creations. My holy temple of Heaven has been cleansed from the scourge of the Fallen. Thank you to my right hands, Gabriel and Michael, for leading the charge. Thank you to those of you that have served so well. 

“The time has come for a new task, however. I have created a new planet, and I need strong, upright Angels to maintain the peace and safety of this planet -- a planet I have christened Earth -- from the Fallen. Who has the devotion to help guard my realm?”

“I can help, Lord!” A beaming young Aziraphale called out in anticipation and hope. He trembled with the depth of his desire to help. The Lord needed him. He was made for this.

“My loyal servant Aziraphale” — Said the Lord. “You shall guard the Eastern Gate of my garden, where I have created new life. The new creatures are completely without defense. They would most surely die if it were not for your help.”

 _I can help, Lord_ remembered Aziraphale. The phrase resonated throughout his being. I wanted so deeply to help. It was my deepest purpose. Perhaps that’s it, he thought, brightening. Since the apocalypse is over, I just need a cause. A project. I need someone to help.

As quickly as that, he’d wrapped himself in his soft woolen coat and miracled the shop closed. Anyone inside the shop found themselves standing outside on the sidewalk, confused but pleasantly happy. Aziraphale set out down the street.

Let’s see, he thought. Who needs my help? He thought of Young Adam. Of course, he and his friends likely need some guidance. Let’s check in on them, shall we? Best take a treat on the way. He noticed the chocolatier a few shops down and decided to step in to buy something for the children.

Several boxes of chocolate were tucked under his arm as he made his way to the bus station. Good day for a bus ride, he thought. Good to live as the locals do. He rode to Tadfield, gently swaying to the happy thoughts of being helpful. The children will need me. They are no doubt lacking the guidance of an interested adult and will be grateful for someone to take an interest in their capers.

At Tadfield, Aziraphale stepped off the bus into the idyllic village and glanced around. He felt drawn to the woods. The children were probably playing some childish game there. As he drew close, he felt the silence of the trees around him. No children nearby, and no signs of play. He wandered down to the cottage where Adam and his parents lived. Perhaps it’s tea time, he thought, suddenly feeling quite peckish.

He knocked at the door of the cottage, and Adam’s mother answered the door. She seemed a bit confused until the light of realization crossed her face. Ah, Mr. Fell, she said. I’m so happy to see you. I’m sorry did Adam make plans with you? I’m afraid he must have forgotten to tell me.

“Ah. Well, no, he didn’t, I was just in the area and thought I’d drop in…” Aziraphale belatedly realized how foolish he must seem to drop in on an eleven year old.

“Oh I’m so sorry Mr. Fell. He’s gone with his father to the fair in the next county. Perhaps you’d come in for a spot of tea?” The poor woman looked like she was just on her way out, clutching a handbag and only half heartedly opening the door to let him in.

“Oh no,” said Aziraphale. “I shan’t disturb you. I should have called ahead, I will be certain to do that next time. Please, don’t let me keep you from your errands.”

The woman’s eyes showed obvious relief. “Ah, yes,” she said. “I was just on the way to the market. Perhaps I’ll have Adam give you a ring to set up a firm date?”

“No no,” protested Aziraphale. “Not necessary.” ( _No child would want to spend time with a boring old thing like YOU, Aziraphale_.) “I’ll just be off. Please give Adam my greetings and do have a lovely time at the market, my dear.”

“Yes, I.. certainly will. Have a good day yourself, Mr. Fell.” The woman shut the door and Aziraphale bumbled away, feeling completely foolish. 

He put a hand into his pocket and felt the chocolate boxes. Oh drat. What should he do with all of this candy? Perhaps… he thought of Anathema and Newton. Perhaps they are at home, he rationaled, brightening. No doubt they would be more amenable to some Angelic assistance in their new life. Bustling across the lane, he absent-mindedly opened a box of chocolates to nibble on.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I must learn how to plan things better, thought Aziraphale, as he rode the bus back to London. He cringed a bit inwardly, thinking of his glimpses of Anathema and Newton through their cottage window. He didn’t _mean_ to spy, but he couldn’t help catching them in the act of … whatever it was they were doing. They were mostly clothed, of course, but it appeared that might be on its way to changing rather quickly. Aziraphale sighed as he sat alone on the nearly empty bus. Ah well, he shrugged, clutching the last chocolate box to his lap. I’ll just save these for Crowley - ah, no. Crowley’s asleep. Aziraphale’s brow wrinkled slightly. _How could I have forgotten that?_

Aziraphale slept heavily again that night.

The next morning, he woke with a distinct pain in his stomach. _Too many chocolates._ Is that it? He’d never experienced pain from food before. He’d rarely experienced pain at all. What an odd sensation. But definitely unpleasant. I don’t like this one bit, he thought to himself. Maybe I just need more rest. He remained still, wrapped in the duvet, staring at the wall again.

A few hours later, the pains having subsided somewhat, he stumbled out of bed and managed to miracle clothes onto his body. Rather wrinkled, he noticed, but he didn’t quite seem to care enough to do anything about it. Someone was pounding on the shop door; he went to tend to it. He didn’t have the energy to argue when a customer pressed several notes into his hand for the collectible Thackeray volume Aziraphale had prized for years.

 _I can help, Lord_. The phrase was haunting him. Help, with what, and how, he thought. Volunteering? An animal shelter, perhaps? He remembered with sudden overwhelming sadness the death of the animals in the flood. His mind shifted quickly. Red Cross? He thought of the wars. The bloody, useless, never-ending human wars. The deaths. The suffering. The pain of the children -- he moaned audibly, shocked at the sound. Aziraphale was beginning to feel very strange indeed. 

That night, Aziraphale did something he’d never done before. He rang up for a pizza delivery. He skulked near the bookshop door, waiting for the delivery person to arrive. He looked out the windows, observing the drizzling rain. I’ve made some poor person go out in the rain, he murmured to himself. What kind of thoughtless creature am I. He pounced on the door when the bell rang, and paid three times the price of the pizza before retreating back into the shop.

Aziraphale woke up at two in the morning with an unpleasant clamping in his middle. He ran to the toilet, too stunned by the food reversing course in his esophagus to miracle it away. He panted, sweating, in the bathroom afterward. What in God’s world is happening to me, he thought. This is preposterous. What a lot of fuss for one pizza. Get hold of yourself, man, he lectured himself. This is NO way for an Angelic creature to behave.

The next morning he felt almost normal again. A bit of a sour taste in his mouth, but nothing that a scone or two wouldn’t fix. _Drat. They’re all gone._ Ah well, a bit of a walk to the bakery would do him good. Crowley’s flat crossed his mind and he brightened. Of course, I should go check in on the plants, he thought. _I can help, Lord._

He hopped on the tube, whistling cheerfully. “What a lovely sunny day, isn’t it,” he beamed at a man sitting across the way. The man frowned slightly, clinging more firmly to his briefcase. “Barmy,” the man muttered, and Aziraphale turned away embarrassed. The ride to Crowley’s flat was spent organizing in his mind all the little chores he could take care of there, then pondering what kind of treats he wanted to purchase at the bakery.

Crowley was still sound asleep, quiet as death. Aziraphale panicked slightly, thinking that he might indeed be dead. How would one know, after all. He put a trembling hand in front of Crowley’s snout and felt a slight hissing of air on his fingers. Ah, no need for alarm. Well, the plants must need some cheering. He bustled into the plant room, expecting to see wilting and general gnashing of leaves. However, everyone seemed cheerful enough. They waved their tendrils in greeting at Aziraphale, but he could tell that none of them really needed more than a slight misting.

Aziraphale lurked around Crowley’s flat for another hour, checking everything was in order, without unduly invading his friend’s privacy. He walked in circles for a bit, after realizing it wasn’t even ten in the morning yet. A whole day to fill.

On his way back to his shop, Aziraphale walked past the bakery. He realized what he’d done by the time he got to his shop door. ( _What a silly. And you only had two errands.)_ He felt too weary to walk back, but realized he had no food in his flat. And he definitely didn’t want to repeat the pizza experience of last night. He turned back to the bakery with a sigh.

The afternoon found Aziraphale sitting on the couch, eating a croissant that had been smeared with lovely salted butter. He had accumulated crumbs across his waistcoat but was too engrossed in the lovely feeling of eating to care. A customer approached him with a book in hand. He waved her away as his hand reached into the bag for another croissant. “That book isn’t worth selling, my dear. Please just take it and save me the trouble of writing up a receipt.” The woman looked confused but grateful, and hurried away from the shop. _Look at me, helping._ Aziraphale hummed softly to himself.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Aziraphale had a pattern now. He’d open the shop for a few hours every morning. He’d sit on the sofa placed in the front of the shop, placidly eating whatever baked goods he had on hand. These days there were rather more customers than usual, as word had gotten out that deals were to be had. Aziraphale gladly let the customers take whatever books they wanted, at whatever prices they suggested. He often felt a warm glow of usefulness. _So wonderful that my books can finally be useful to someone._

By the time noon came around, he was generally feeling hungry enough to close the shop and order up take away. He’d become very fond of curries. And, with the added benefit of several glasses of wine, his afternoons became a haze of drowsiness. He’d had to let the waistband of his pants out a bit, but the stretch of his belly felt good. It felt very good. In fact, it felt wonderfully good to be so wonderfully full of food that no other unpleasant thoughts could enter his head. Aziraphale would sigh his way through the afternoon, pondering what to eat for dinner.

Late afternoon meant a stroll to the bakery. His friend Louis was rather less effusive in his greetings these days. Not that he didn’t like Mr. Fell, but he was worried about the gentleman. He’d observed Mr. Fell’s cheeks growing more round and suspected that the delicious items he bought were not being shared with friends. Nevertheless Louis obligingly sold whatever was requested, although he no longer threw in any extra samples.

On the way home from the bakery, Aziraphale would stop at another takeaway place. Thai food was exceptionally tasty, but it often left him with a bit of heartburn. More often than not he’d end up heading home with a very large carton of fried rice and several egg rolls. He’d inhale the smell and hurry home, anxious to eat in private.

The day would be capped off with a bath. Not a delicious, decadent bath, but a warm and soothing one nonetheless. It was too much trouble to add just the right fragrances and oils. He’d bought the simplest soap he could find, and would give his body a once-over before relaxing into the soothing water. He’d doze off sometimes, and sometimes wake up shivering.

Aziraphale had finally learned how to lull himself to sleep -- at least temporarily. He’d spend hours in bed, teetering between sleep and wakefulness. He’d doze off, then wake up gazing at the ceiling. Memories entered his brain unbidden while he slept. Years of memories of pain and suffering. Not his -- angels couldn’t suffer. Angels simply weren’t made that way. The poor humans did the suffering. Decades of wars. Centuries of death. Tears, turned to begging, turned to anger at God. Humans were masterful at being angry with God. ( _Why didn’t I do more to help them.)_ He would swallow the feelings away and fall back asleep.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Aziraphale huddled in his nightly bath. This time, it was more like an early afternoon bath. He’d been unable to summon the energy required to open the shop, go out for food, or even wash himself properly. He sat, trembling, as emotions more powerful than he’d ever experienced rolled through his body.

Hot tears ran down the exhausted creases of his face. He wiped them away, over and over, but they kept coming. He felt _horrible_ . He couldn’t understand what was happening to him. Was he falling? He started to sob, unable to contain the pulsating of his body as it struggled to expel the pain. “Why Lord,” he gasped. He began to chant it, in between sobs. It became a rhythm that his soul began to beat time to. Trembling. Tears. Sobs. Gasps. _Why Lord._

Aziraphale sat this way for a very long time. Longer than he’d ever sat anywhere before. The logical part of his brain knew that, eventually, he would run out of tears. Run out of pain. Run out of trembling sobs. The emotion in his body responded: _Not today. Not tomorrow either._

Eventually, at the point where his angelic logic had finally admitted defeat, Aziraphale stopped crying.

He managed, somehow, to pull himself out of the tub. His strength had gone from his arms, and his legs were quivering with nervous pains. He wrapped himself with a towel, then exchanged it for a robe. He shuffled to the bedroom.

He stood and stared at the bed. _I can’t. I have to help… someone._ He remembered Crowley’s plants. _I have to check the plants. I have to get dressed and go check on Crowley’s plants._ He tried to miracle clothes onto his body. _Nothing’s happening._ He tried again, reaching a little deeper this time. _It’s just emptiness._

Panic. His bones groaned. His joints creaked. But panic drove him to find his clothes. He moved throughout the shop, looking for them. His eyes darted everywhere. _If I can just find them, everything will be ok. I just need ..._

He walked into the kitchen, still looking. A pain hit his chest. A powerful pain. A pain that took his breath away. _Why Lord. Why._ He grabbed at his heart, feeling a pounding drum there instead of a human organ. _This can’t be happening_ , he thought. _Not this. Anything but this._

Slowly, he leaned back against the wall. He looked over at the window. He could clearly see a ray of light, making a rectangular patch of light on the floor. He saw floating motes of dust within the light. Slowly, oh so slowly, he slid down the wall. He landed in a seated position, legs and arms falling haphazardly.

Aziraphale’s heart pounded. It kept pounding, until it stopped pounding. 

He stared into the light.

He stared into the light until it was no longer a soft yellow hazy thing. He stared until it turned into an orange glow, then a softer brown, then disappeared altogether. He stared until everything around him was dim, until everything around him was silent, until the only thing he could hear was nothing.

He sat, and he stared. His chest had stopped hurting. It had stop beating. He had stopped breathing. Six thousand years of purpose had once radiated its way through his human body. Now there was a vacant spot in every vein, in every muscle. In every cell an emptiness grew. A lack. A surrender.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The corporeal form of Aziraphale lay slumped as it has fallen. 

Together they stood at its feet. Aziraphale and … someone else. Aziraphale knew someone was standing beside him, looking at his body. He didn’t know who it was. And frankly, he didn’t care. 

Not-Aziraphale made a movement that may have been a sigh. It may have been a shrug. Whatever that movement was, it catapulted both of them elsewhere. Aziraphale was along for the ride. He had given up curiosity, desire, and hope. He merely existed as he was, apparently joined to Not-Aziraphale for whatever journey they were about to undertake.

Suddenly, the journey stopped. They were standing in a meadow, noted Aziraphale. Not-Aziraphale gestured in a direction. Aziraphale looked. Two children played in the meadow. A small boy, laughing and joining hands with a small blue girl. They danced a circle around a third thing … it was not a child. What was it? Aziraphale didn’t know. It shimmered a color. Then it shimmered another color. Then a third. It kept shifting. A quick yet languid … something … of changing light.

Not-Aziraphale stood silently. The children laughed, and played, and danced. Aziraphale watched. He felt… he knew, somehow… who these children were. If he could just remember who they were, he thought, everything would be fixed.

Not-Aziraphale shrugged again. Aziraphale/Not-Aziraphale rode the sigh into a room. A large room, with one long table and three chairs behind it. They stood in front of it. Aziraphale blinked, and an older man was seated on the left, facing them. He had a patch covering one eye. He peered at Aziraphale/Not-Aziraphale with his free eye. 

Aziraphale blinked again, and a blue lady appeared in the chair to the right. A fierce woman. Her gaze was dark and horrific, and pure compassion. She smiled slowly, sharp teeth gleaming.

The older man clapped his hands together. “Ah,” he said gruffly. “Let’s review, shall we.” He looked at Aziraphale/Not-Aziraphale, then at a document that appeared in his hand. 

“The contract appears to be incomplete,” he mused with a slight frown. “Irregular, but perhaps …” He covered his good eye and leaned in Aziraphale/Not-Aziraphale’s direction. He uncovered it and continued. “No, this is most irregular. The contract clearly states … “

The old man continued speaking, but Aziraphale couldn’t understand him. It was like listening at the door with a glass. He strained to understand, despite his detachment. He wanted to know what was going on, in spite of himself.

The man continued. Aziraphale could make out the phrase “...to learn …” and then “...to understand …” and then nothing else for a while.

“Is this contract correct?” Not-Aziraphale affirmed without a word that this was the correct agreement.

“Hmm. Seems a shame to void it, really,” said the man.

“Shall we burn it,” hissed the blue woman. A gleam in her eyes indicated great delight at the prospect. Her dark hair danced in tendrils that would have looked like flames, if they were another color.

A surge of emotion filled Aziraphale. “No!” he shouted. “Don’t burn anything, _please_.”

Not-Aziraphale hummed. Aziraphale noticed a shimmering begin to appear in the third chair, the one in the center of the table. A soft crescent of light, and the colors kept changing.

“Seems we are at a stalemate. Shall we roll the dice for it?” The one-eyed man rubbed his hands together, gleeful as a gambler on a hot streak.

Not-Aziraphale sighed, again.

“Excellent! Ha!” The man shook the dice that had appeared in between his hands. “Now we shall see the truth.” He let the dice fall, and Aziraphale stepped forward to see the result.

_Snake eyes._

“And so it is,” said the man. And just like that, Aziraphale/Not-Aziraphale were riding the crescent of light back to where their journey began.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Aziraphale blinked. He blinked again, as he slowly awoke. He looked in front of him. A black button, attached to a black shirt. He sighed, deeply. He felt something around him. Something warm, something … cool. His ears were buzzing, a rasping sound that was coming from inside his own head. He felt confused, he felt … _what happened to me?_

He had a head, again. He hadn’t, for awhile. Had he?

As the buzzing lessened, other sounds took its place. A slapping sound. A hand, slapping his chest. He whispered: “Stop.”

The slapping stopped. The black button moved. Above him now, a pair of eyes.

 _Those eyes_ , thought Aziraphale. _I had forgotten…_ A soft gasp of joy rose up from his gut. He knew those eyes.

“You _bastard,”_ shouted Crowley. “You bloody big beautiful bastard.” Crowley’s arms were around him. Crowley was holding him. _Crowley_.

Another sob escaped Aziraphale. He tried to stop it, and it ended up a strangled sound, low in his throat. “Crowley,” whispered Aziraphale. “You’re awake.”

“You shut up, Angel,” said Crowley with a fierce rasping voice. “You just shut up.”

Aziraphale lifted a hand to Crowley’s cheek. “Crowley. Please. Crowley.”

“I don’t know whether to throttle you or ...” whispered Crowley through gritted teeth. He swallowed, a hard swallow. He hugged Aziraphale to his chest. “Angel. I’m sorry. I’m so very sorry. I can tell things have gone badly for you in the past few weeks. But you should have _woken me up._ ”

“Crowley, please …” whispered Aziraphale. He couldn’t look into those eyes anymore. Not one second more. Not when he knew, now. “I think I need …”

Crowley’s arms tightened around Aziraphale’s body. Aziraphale had never been held like that, not once, not by anybody. Crowley growled out: “Just tell me, Angel. Tell me what you need. I’ll get it for you. Anything at all.”

Aziraphale swallowed hard. He whispered into Crowley’s neck: “I think I need help. And I think I need you.”


	2. Crowley is Needed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale needs Crowley, and Crowley is angry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "And I patched up your broken wing and hung around a while  
> Trying to keep your spirits up and your fever down." -- Willie Nelson

Crowley had sauntered into the bookshop that morning like it was nothing. Like it was the first day of the rest of their lives, which by all rights it should have been. Like Aziraphale would be sitting there, reading some ridiculously ancient book, drinking some ridiculously posh tea, like he always was. Crowley had sauntered in like he owned the place.

He’d felt good after his nap. He’d spent a whole day just stretching. He’d spent another day tending to his plants. He’d spent a third day eating an entire meal, start to finish. A whole useless three days, he thought later, than he could have been with Aziraphale. 

Crowley had sauntered into the bookshop, unlocking the doors with a snap of his fingers, and frozen when he’d stepped in.

He’d stood, in actual, physical horror. He’d lived through falling, through Hell’s endless bureaucratic red tape, demonic jabs, and centuries of unrequited love. Even through that horrible hour when he thought Aziraphale was destroyed. But this… _this_ … hurt him more than even that had. He didn’t remember feeling this drop in his stomach when they handed him the antichrist. He didn’t remember his knees turning to jelly like this when he watched poor souls get caught up in the Inquisition. He didn’t recall such a surge of overwhelming panic, not even when Aziraphale refused to go to Alpha Centauri with him. This was different. Standing in the bookshop, realizing that again, _again_ , he was to be denied complete happiness. Crowley began to move, pacing, prowling, circling. 

The books were gone. Aziraphale’s books. The cherished books that Crowley had saved from the bombs for him. The books that Aziraphale had spent lifetimes collecting, guarding, _loving_. The books were gone. Oh, there were a few newish paperbacks scattered here and there among the shelves. But there were no original editions. No signed copies of particularly important works. No books that Aziraphale loved.

Crowley felt the blood starting to drain out of his head and into his heart. “Aziraphale,” he whispered. His voice was dry from disuse and he tried again.

“Aziraphale,” he called, louder.. It came out more as a croak this time, and he clawed at his throat in an effort to force it to work better. A third time, he tried: “Aziraphale!” _Please, please tell me you’re just reorganizing, Angel. Please._

Crowley’s adrenaline finally kicked in. He jogged into the sitting room. No Aziraphale. He saw piles of takeaway containers, dirty and crusted with dried food. He saw empty bottles of wine everywhere. This was not…

“AZIRAPHALE,” he yelled as loud as he could. Something was wrong. Something was most definitely wrong. Aziraphale was absolutely meticulous about recycling used wine bottles. It was something Crowley had teased him about, endlessly. “You know they just throw those away, right,” he’d teased more than once.

A dozen possibilities raced through Crowley’s mind. A hundred terrible visions. He was panicking, he knew. He’d fully expected to saunter in this morning, fresh and rested, and propose to start a new kind of life with the one constant of his existence. The one central star around whom he orbited. 

_Aziraphale_ , he whimpered internally. _Where are you, Angel._ He ran upstairs to the bedroom. His eyes took in the mess; the clothes, lying wrinkled and darkened in corners. The unmade bed, clearly slept in and dirtied with what looked like food stains. He checked the bathroom. A grimy tub, a robe tossed on the floor.

Finally he ran back down to the kitchen in the back of the flat, and thank Christ, he thought, thank Christ and Buddha and Robespierre, here was Aziraphale.

Aziraphale was leaning against the wall, open-mouthed and glassy-eyed.

“Zira,” panted Crowley. “ZIra. Wake up. Please wake up.”

Aziraphale made no movement, no sign of recognition. He couldn’t be…

Crowley gathered Aziraphale to his chest. “Aziraphale,” he whispered hotly. “Please Angel, I need you to wake up now. I’m not sure where you’ve gone but it’s time to come back now.”

He remembered something the humans did, and laid Aziraphale down on his back. He bent down to listen at Aziraphale’s mouth, to check for a breath.

Nothing.

He put his ear against Aziraphale’s heart. 

Again, nothing.

“Oh, I rather think not,” muttered Crowley, with an oath directed to anyone or anything that might be listening. “Not today, friendo.”

He began pushing his hands hard into Aziraphale’s chest. Was he doing this right? He’d never paid attention. He’d never thought he’d have to know it. Would it even work?

Crowley was out of options, so he pressed on. He leaned down and breathed a big gulp of air into Aziraphale’’s mouth. _Our first kiss_ , he thought with a deeply grim twist of pain. Then he beat his fist on Aziraphale’s chest. Another breath, then more pounding. Breath. Pound.

He did this in a patchwork style, trying every variation of rhythm he could think of. Whoever or whatever did this to Aziraphale would pay., Pay dearly. His anger mounted as his fist hit harder against Aziraphale’s chest.

 _There will be bruises_ , he thought softly to himself.

“Who gives a blasted load of bollocks,” he said out loud. “Wake up now, Aziraphale. Enough of this. I’ll not have it, do you understand me?”

Crowley had never, in the entire history of his existence as a demon, been quite so resolute about anything as he was that Aziraphale would return to him _right now_ and with _no further delay._

Which is, of course, what happened.

A flutter of eyelids. A soft sigh. A whispered “Stop.”

Crowley groaned through his teeth and wondered who to thank. He shouted all manner of things, and he couldn’t even begin to process what he’d said to Aziraphale. Probably nothing good.

But Aziraphale was conscious, finally, and Crowley would do anything to make sure that state of affairs continued. That’s when he heard the gasping words slipping from Aziraphale’s mouth, the words that would shape the entirety of Crowley’s future.

“I think I need help. And I think I need you.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Crowley kept remembering those words. Twenty minutes after he’d found Aziraphale, he’d lifted him off the floor and settled him onto the couch in the sitting room. _I think I need you_ , he remembered. Thirty minutes after, when he’d managed to get a tumbler of water into Aziraphale, the words sizzled across his brain. _I think I need you._ Hours later, after he’d tucked Aziraphale into a freshly made bed and managed to clean up a significant portion of the mess in the flat, those words were on their way to becoming Crowley’s new identity. _I need you._

Crowley was angry. At who, or _what_ , he didn’t even know. He was angry with an anger that no demon from hell had ever manifested before. Crowley was so angry that he was only capable of understanding two very basic facts at this particular point in time. One, that Aziraphale needed him. And two, that he was angry. His anger was pustulent, his anger was overflowing, his anger was a volcano, his anger was the life force of something so new it didn’t even have a name yet.

His Angel was hurt, and Crowley was angry.

Crowley’s hair sizzled as he wiped down the kitchen that Aziraphale had collapsed in. His tongue sparked as he gathered the broken and emptied wine bottles. His tattoo _glowed_ while he cleaned and pressed Aziraphale’s clothes. Every time he found more evidence of Aziraphale’s pain and suffering, another part of Crowley’s body started to steam. A low menacing growl started to emanate from his throat, a continuous graveling that was part human rage, part demonic retribution. Someone was going to pay. Maybe not today. But _soon_.

That night, while Aziraphale slept, Crowley prowled the flat, circling and re-circling it. As he paced, he remembered Aziraphale’s words. _I need you._ Those words became etched into the wooden floor. Every time he remembered those words, he thought a new phrase of his own. _You will pay_. The poor wooden floor, used to the gentle tread of the Angel, trembled with the carving of Crowley’s words into its old bones. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next morning, Crowley walked as softly as he could up the stairs and into Aziraphale’s room. He held a tray, on which he’d placed a cup of tea and a few pieces of toast. His outward appearance was calm. He gently set the tray down on the table next to Aziraphale’s bed. He sighed deeply, and steeled himself.

Crowley sat neatly on the edge of the bed and passed a hand across Aziraphale’s forehead. He felt a warmth, even a slight bit of sweat due to the heavy duvet. He inhaled sharply and exhaled slowly. _He needs me._

“Aziraphale,” he murmured, while pressing his hand gently to Aziraphale’s cheek. “Time to wake up, Zira. I’ve brought you some breakfast.”

Aziraphale’s eyes opened, and Crowley shrank back from the look in those eyes. They were the same blue, the same deeply tinted shade of a perfect summer sky, but there was no sparkle in them. Not a hint of Aziraphale’s consistent underlying effervescent joy. Just a blank, broken look.

Crowley swallowed down his rage. Aziraphale was his now, to take care of. Even though Crowley was making plans in the demonic shadows of his demonic soul, Aziraphale must only ever see softness from this point forward.

“Can you eat something, Zira?” Crowley reflexively smoothed the duvet, working out the wrinkles. “I’ve got some toast and tea for you. Can you sit up for me?” _Softly, softly,_ Crowley said to himself.

Aziraphale struggled a bit to sit up. He winced in pain as he moved, and Crowley nearly lost control of himself in his panic at that particular facial expression.

“What is it, Zira,” he spat out. “What hurts?”

“Everything hurts, Crowley,” said Aziraphale in a flat tone. He gestured toward the tray. “I could eat now, I think.”

Crowley placed the tray in Aziraphale’s lap. He sat back a bit on the bed, watching Aziraphale with every atom of his being. Aziraphale calmly began to chew the toast. He sipped the tea and sighed.

“Ah, thank you Crowley,” Aziraphale murmured with a small, shy glance at his friend. “I feel very foolish. What a lot of fuss and bother I’ve caused for you.” 

“It’s nothing,” murmured Crowley. _It’s everything_ , thought Crowley. 

Aziraphale continued eating, darting small glances to Crowley in between mincing bites of his toast. “Crowley,” he said between bites, “you’re staring at me.”

Crowley’s head dipped, immediately. “Sorry, Zira,” he said softly. “Just worried about you, which seems appropriate at the moment…” Crowley reached to place a hand on Aziraphale’s knee, over the duvet. “Can you tell me what happened?” _Softly, now,_ Crowley reminded himself. _Be very careful here._

Aziraphale swallowed hard. “I…” He paused. “Well…” her trailed off. “Can we talk about this later, Crowley? I’m feeling very tired and more than a little scruffy. I probably need a bath.”

Crowley’s muscles stopped quivering, for a bit. Whatever force he’d be reckoning with would have to wait. “Of course, ZIra. Let me take that tray and get you a nice proper bath ready.”

Aziraphale looked at him, a bit of an odd look, but grateful, “You’ve been such a good friend, Crowley,” he sighed. “Whatever would I do without you.” A worried wrinkle appeared in the Angel’s forehead. 

Crowley’s entire body thrummed. “You don’t have to worry about that, Zira. I’m not leaving you alone again.” Crowley nearly hissed the words, and saw in wrecked sadness how Aziraphale drew back from the intensity.

 _Softly, carefully,_ Crowley told himself. He made a conscious effort to soften his features, and his movements, and his words. “Give me the tray. I’ll have your bath ready in a few moments.”

Aziraphale leaned back against the headboard, and looked like the weight of a at least a few years was lifting from his shoulders.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Aziraphale shuffled out of the bath, wrapped in the fresh terry cloth robe that Crowley had hung on the hook of the bathroom door. He looked better, and Crowley gestured towards the outfit that he’d spread on the bed.

“I cleaned some of your clothes, Aziraphale, they looked in need of a touch up. I hope these are alright to wear… or would you like to choose something different?”

Aziraphale looked at the familiar pants and shirt, cleaned and pressed to a pristine state, and noticed the plain soft cotton boxers and t-shirt next to them. He shook his head. “These will be fine, Crowley. Thank you again…”

“Good, good, then. I’ll be downstairs tidying some things. Looks like we might need to restock the kitchen. You get dressed and then… well. I’ll be downstairs.” Crowley nearly bolted out of the room.

Crowley’s heart beat loudly in his chest, and a flush spread over his neck as he bounded down the stairs. He entered the sitting room, and miracled away a dusty spot or two. He glared at the couch, feeling it didn’t look quite comfortable enough. The couch gulped, and a soft blanket and several throw pillows appeared. As an afterthought, he put a pitcher of water and tumblers on a side table. Circling the room for the thousandth time that day, he finally sat on the far end of the couch.

He breathed deeply, waiting for Aziraphale to appear. _Must be calm_ , he told himself. _Mustn’t scare Zira_. He forced his body to an unnatural stillness as he waited. His brain, restless, began fomenting.

Aziraphale stepped off the bottom stair, into the sitting room. He looked around in wonder. “My, Crowley, you’ve cleaned it all… “ A guilty look stole over his face. “So sorry to put you to so much trouble.”

Crowley leapt from the couch. “No trouble, Zira”, he said. “Kept me out of mischief for the night. Come and sit down, won’t you?” He led Aziraphale by the hand to the soft end of the couch that had been primed with pillows and blanket.

Aziraphale lowered himself to a seat, breath hitching a bit. “Ah. This feels nice.” His head bent back against the back cushion, and he sank into the plush softness. Crowley sat down beside him, holding himself very still.

Aziraphale murmured. “You’re staring again, Crowley.” Crowley flushed a red heat, this time up to his cheeks.

“I’m afraid I can’t help it right now, Zira,” his voice almost cracking. “I’m worried about you. Can you explain to me what happened?”

Aziraphale sighed. “I’m not entirely sure myself, Crowley.”

Crowley stared at that, even though he knew Aziraphale didn’t want him to. Who was he to exact vengeance on, if Aziraphale wasn’t sure who’d harmed him?

“I think….” continued Aziraphale, “I believe, that, if I’m interpreting my symptoms correctly, and based on what I’ve read on the subject… I believe I may be experiencing depression and long-buried trauma of an emotional nature.”

Crowley sat back, too stunned to respond.

“Now,” continued Aziraphale, “my reading on the subject is rather limited. I may need your assistance in looking up some of the more recent research. My guess is, the solution is going to start with some sort of talk or behavioral therapy.” Aziraphale’s smile was very weak, and did not even reach the vicinity of his eyes.

Crowley was not sure at all how to handle this. “Depression…” he repeated. “Isn’t that… a human thing?” He remembered the very human attempt he’d made to revive Aziraphale. “Are you… do you think you’re….”

“Human, now? Quite possibly,” stated Aziraphale, calmly. “I can’t… you see, when I try to… how shall I put this.”

“Just put it,” ground out Crowley. He glowered, then caught himself.

Aziraphale withdrew, a bit. Embarrassed, ashamed, even. A sheen of moisture appeared on his eyes. Crowley swore under his breath.

“I can’t miracle anymore, Crowley,” whispered Aziraphale. His face scrunched up and his hands lifted to cover it. He sat with his head in his hands. And Crowley’s insides lit on fire when he heard a soft sob of pain.

“You can’t… miracle...anything?” Crowley questioned, doubtful. “Are you sure you’re not just….”

“I’ve _tried_ , Crowley,” bit back Aziraphale in a rush of heat. Don’t you think I’ve tried? I’ve tried over and over again for weeks now. At first I thought God was just angry at me. Then I thought I was getting a human illness. Now, I think…. I think She has turned her back on me altogether.”

Aziraphale began to shake, and tears dripped down from his checks. Crowley was frozen, completely lost.

“Can you please hug me, Crowley,” begged Aziraphale, and Crowley cursed himself, hell, heaven, and most of all the one being that caused this. He put his arms around Aziraphale’s trembling frame and held on. Some instinct led him to softly stroke Aziraphale’s back. Slow and steady, up and down, softly murmuring into Aziraphale’s shoulder.

He didn’t realize right away what he was whispering as he held Zira; the words were coming from a part of himself that he wasn’t conscious of at that moment. 

Eventually Aziraphale’s tears slowed, and he drew back a bit from Crowley. Crowley loosened his hold, but kept stroking Aziraphale’s back.

“What are you saying, dear?” Aziraphale was still trembling, slightly. Crowley blinked at him. 

He realized, finally, what he’d been saying into Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Not sure, Zira,” he lied. He winced at the lie, but now was not the time to profess...whatever it was he needed to profess.

“Going back to the miracling thing…” Crowley quickly took over the thread of the conversation. “Can you not… I mean, can you even do the basic… “

“No, Crowley. Not even the basics. I have to eat, like a human. Sleep, like a human. I have to … “ here his face reddened. “I have to relieve myself like a human. I think it’s time to face the fact that God has abandoned me, Crowley. She has completely and utterly abandoned me.”

Aziraphale’s face was a mess of wounded insecurity, pain, and bewilderment.

 _That bitch is dead,_ thought Crowley.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Aziraphale teetered between rational solutions and emotional breakdowns throughout that day. “I’ll need to make an appointment with a qualified therapist, Crowley,” he was saying one moment. The next, he was using the new throw pillow to dab his tears of shame and guilt.

“Oh Crowley, I’m so sorry you have to deal with this. This is not fair to you. We finally have a bit of peace and you come back to this… “ Aziraphale looked down at his even pudgier than normal frame and gestured weakly. “I am grateful for your help but Crowley… it’s too much to ask of you.”

Crowley held himself very still. Very still indeed. “I’m not going anywhere, Zira, so you can forget that line of thought this minute. You need looking after, and I’ll be damned if…” he stopped at Aziraphale’s wince.

“Oh, dear. I’m too...perhaps later we can discuss it. Right now, I’m so very tired.” Aziraphale’’s eyelids drooped as every line on his face seemed to deepen into a crevice of sadness.

Crowley helped Aziraphale lie down on the couch. “Just rest for now, then. I might zip out to a shop for some things, but I promise I will be back before you even notice I’m gone. If you need anything at all, just… just call me. Okay?”

Aziraphale sighed. “Okay, Crowley.” His eyes slid shut and he settled down into the embrace of the couch. Crowley watched until Aziraphale’s breathing was deep and easy.

Even as one part of his brain thought: _And now, we plan_ , another part knew he had to figure out how best to help Aziraphale. He pulled out his phone and did a web search. Time to hit the pavement.

A few hours later, Crowley let himself back into the bookshop, carrying a bag of items from the market. He’d also stopped by the bakery, and asked the absurd little man behind the counter if he knew Aziraphale. 

“Mr. Fell, of course! I haven’t seen him recently, is he…” the man trailed off, fear surfacing on his face. 

“He’s hit a bit of a rough patch, and I’m taking care of him until he gets back on his feet. Can you recommend some of his favorites?” Crowley’s fingers drummed the counter.

“Of course, of course, monsieur.” The man bustled about, filling a bag with a variety of items. “I’m so sorry to hear Mr. Fell is ill. Please take these as a gift, and tell him Louis hopes he feels better soon.”

Crowley didn’t argue, and took the bag with a nod. “I’ll tell him.” He wheeled on his heel and left the shop in a rush. Probably a bit rude, he thought to himself, then shrugged it off.

The items did look tempting. He hoped, fervently, that Aziraphale would be up to eating them. His web searches had listed loss of appetite as a potential side-effect of depression -- if that was even the right diagnosis. It also listed excessive appetite. Of the two possibilities, Crowley rather selfishly hoped Aziraphale leaned toward the latter. He didn’t think he could tolerate it if Aziraphale decided to wither away on him. 

The door shut behind him as he entered the shop. He shuddered again at the nearly bare shelves, then hurried through to the sitting room. Aziraphale still slept, peacefully, on the couch. Crowley walked as softly as he could past him into the kitchen.

Crowley had used demonic persuasion to book Aziraphale a therapy session for the next day. He hoped that Aziraphale would not ask too many pointed questions about how Crowley had been able to so quickly secure the services of one of the top therapists in the city. A therapist that wasn’t even taking new patients, she was so sought after. Crowley sighed, and decided he’d deal with that later. For the time being, he knew, he needed to keep Aziraphale fed and hydrated, and ideally talking.

Crowley quivered internally at the idea of listening to Aziraphale’s descriptions of trauma. He knew from first-hand experience just what that kind of trauma looked and felt like. He seethed at the thought of Aziraphale having to experience it.

“I haven’t forgotten you, “ he whispered to her. “Oh no, I have not. You will not ineffable your way out of this one.” The burnished red of Crowley’s hair heightened in intensity at the depth of his rage. _Calm, calm_ , he reminded himself. _First, Aziraphale. Then…well._

He breathed deeply. Once, then again. When he felt sufficiently stable, he went to wake Aziraphale; Crowley’s shameless plan was to tempt him to eat using the extraordinarily human miracle of ham and Dijon on a French baguette.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Crowley sat on the sofa in the therapist’s office, hand resting next to Aziraphale’s. Watchful, waiting.

“I generally encourage patients to talk to me alone, Mr. Fell,” said the bespectacled therapist. She was conservative and non-threatening in her manner, with a wall full of shelves absolutely groaning with books, and Crowley could tell that Aziraphale liked her immediately.

“Yes, I understand that, Ms. Scott. I have read that it’s beneficial to do so. I had rather hoped that you would make an exception, at least for the first few sessions…” At that, Aziraphale’s hand grasped Crowley’s. Crowley’s heart leapt betrayingly up into his throat. “You see, Mr. Crowley is taking care of me, and I’d like him to hear any advice you might have to give, as I seem to have a tendency to forget things, lately.”

“I think we can make an exception for awhile, Mr. Fell,” agreed the therapist, slowly, with a long, thorough gaze at Crowley. “Why don’t we talk about how you’re feeling now, and go from there.”

Crowley sat and ground his teeth for the entire hour of the therapy session. He tried to listen to Aziraphale’s explanations of how he felt. How he’d decided to start practically giving his books away, in a misguided attempt at _helping_. How he’d started to eat more and more in an attempt to stuff down his pain. How he struggled to understand just what exactly had happened to himself in the kitchen when his body had shut down and he himself had gone...elsewhere.

Crowley, sat, and listened, and stewed, and made another mark on his heart for every pain that Aziraphale expressed. Those marks were adding up, quickly, and each one would result in an act of demonic retribution. _I promise you_ , he told Her, silently. _I promise you. I am coming for you._

By the end of the session, Crowley was sweating. His jaw was a knotted mass of tightened muscle, and his teeth ached. He held on to Aziraphale’s hand, gently, so gently, but inside of his chest every muscle was taut. The therapist had started speaking, and Crowley realized he’d forgotten to listen. _Aziraphale asked you to do one thing, and you’ve forgotten already, idiot_ , he screamed at himself internally. He straightened up and turned the full force of his demonic attention on the woman.

She sensed it, and faltered a bit. But to her credit, she recovered admirably and moved on. “...the therapy sessions are well and good, Mr. Fell, but it’s possible we may need to prescribe something for the depression…”

At this point Aziraphale jumped in. “NO pills, please, Ms. Scott. I do not want to ingest any… pills if I can absolutely help it.” Crowley squeezed his fingers, using his thumb to stroke the top of Aziraphale’s hand gently.

“I understand your reluctance, Mr. Fell. It can absolutely be useful and even necessary in many cases. However, I respect your desire to attempt to resolve this on your own. We can revisit the issue later if necessary, after you’ve tried some other things. I have a few suggestions, which I will write down so you can take them with you.” She began writing on a fresh sheet of the pad she’d held on her lap throughout the session.

“Now, my first suggestion, and I know this may be a tough one, is regular exercise.” At Aziraphale’s attempt to interject, she held up a hand. “I know, it feels absolutely out of the question to you at this moment. I’m not suggesting you start training for a marathon, Mr. Fell. But it can be extremely beneficial to move your body, if only to improve circulation. A gentle walk around the block to begin with is fine. Alternatively, many of my patients have had wonderful experiences with yoga. I will write the address of a very welcoming studio down.”

Aziraphale was already fretting about this, Crowley could tell. Aziraphale was against most forms of exercise in general and anything that might cause him to look ridiculous in particular.

Ms. Scott continued on. “It’s also beneficial to spend some time with hobbies you enjoy. I know you’ve enjoyed reading quite a bit in the past, Mr. Fell, but given recent events, it may be best to choose something else. Knitting or bird-watching can be very therapeutic. I’ll give you a website that can give you plenty of ideas in that vein.

“Finally, it’s very important to communicate with others about your day-to-day struggles, so that you don’t feel all alone in the healing process. You’re fortunate to have a supportive partner to talk to. I’d also suggest finding a local support group — again, I’ve written down the details of several.”

Aziraphale startled a bit. “Oh, Crowley isn’t my partner, Ms. Scott…” he stuttered and reddened but the woman continued on as if nothing untoward had been said.

“He appears to be your partner in healing, Mr. Fell. A healing partner does not necessarily have to be a life partner. It can be anyone that cares about your well-being.” She smiled softly, at both of them. Crowley blessed her, silently. A demonic blessing...poor woman would probably break out in a rash before the day was over.

“I see. Thank you for the suggestions, Ms. Scott. You’ve been very kind and helpful.”

“I’m quite happy to help, Mr. Fell. Shall we schedule a visit for the same time next week?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In the Bentley, on the way back to the shop, Aziraphale was silent. Crowley was driving as slow as his demonic heart would allow, and glancing sideways at Aziraphale regularly to gauge his reaction.

“Doing alright, Zira?” He tried to keep his voice neutral.

Aziraphale sighed. “Yes, Crowley. Thank you for checking. It’s just a lot to think about. It seems overwhelming, and I am not sure where to start…” Aziraphale looked down at the list of suggestions in his hand. The therapist’s handwriting was orderly, which pleased him, but the list was long.

“One step at a time, she said, remember?” Crowley reached over and put his hand gently on top of Aziraphale’s. “She gave you a long list, but she said to move at your own pace. We don’t have to start them all tomorrow.”

“Did she say that?” Aziraphale’s voice was uncertain. “I don’t remember. I’m glad you were with me, Crowley. I was afraid I might forget something.”

Crowley’s hand stayed covering Aziraphale’s the entire ride home. _Softly, softly_ , he kept telling himself.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next day, Aziraphale seemed slightly more pert and ready to attack an item on the list. “Hmmm,” he pondered aloud. “Would yoga just be too ridiculous for me, do you think? All those young people would stare at an old … fat … thing like me invading their space.”

 _The hell they will_ , thought Crowley. “Yoga? Sounds good to me. I could use a good stretch. Besides, I think even Hastur got into it a few years ago.”

This was obviously a lie, but Crowley’s heart soared at Aziraphale’s tiny giggle. “Oh Crowley. What nonsense. But… would you really… try it with me?” Aziraphale hovered between hope and concern that yoga just might be a bit too much for himself.

“Course I would, Zira. Now, let’s get a bit of breakfast in us before we start making any plans. This demon is famished.” This was also obviously a lie, but Aziraphale just tutted and sat waiting at the kitchen table while Crowley fried up a bit of egg on toast.

Later, they pondered what one would wear to yoga. Crowley’s web search turned up an array of what Aziraphale felt were frightfully tight garments. “I couldn’t possibly,” he dithered, ready to call the whole thing off. Crowley saw the lines of fatigue beginning to encroach on Aziraphale’s face, and hurried to find a more sensible outfit.

“Ah, that’s stuff’s just for the young folks to feel good about themselves in. Nothing wrong with it, but look, this site says it’s not necessary. It just says you need to be comfortable, and wearing garments you can easily move around in. Like… sweat pants.”

Aziraphale gasped audibly at that. “Sweat pants,” he squeaked. “Crowley, I wouldn’t be caught dead…” Aziraphale caught himself in the middle of that sentence, and his face drained of color.

Crowley knew he had to come up with something, and quickly. So he miracled a pair of the rattiest sweats he could imagine onto his own frame, along with a battered old Queen t-shirt as a top. “What do you think, Zira. Do I look presentable?”

Aziraphale’s look changed from very real horror at his own slip-up to feigned horror at Crowley’s appearance. Crowley let out the breath he’d been holding.

“Certainly you’re not going to wear _that_ ,” spouted Aziraphale. Crowley merely grinned and changed his look to simple, free-flowing black yoga pants and a soft, shiny black blouse. 

“Better, Zira?” Crowley watched Aziraphale carefully and finally got a nod of approval. Crowley miracled up a matching outfit in a soft pearly shade. “This looks like it would suit you,” he said shyly.

Aziraphale tentatively held out his hand and took the outfit. “We shall see,” he said, his earlier pert mood dimmed, but not entirely gone.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The yoga studio was indeed welcoming, as Ms. Scott had promised. All sorts of people were there, and all sorts of different body types. Crowley watched Aziraphale closely as he took in the crowd, and noticed how his demeanor relaxed a bit as he saw that he wouldn’t be totally out of place here.

The lady at the desk pointed them to a class for beginners. “How lucky, it’s starting in ten minutes; you’ve arrived just in time,” she said, brightly. Crowley grinned and guided Aziraphale to the right room. On the way, he passed a young couple who stared and tittered as they passed. “Talk about an odd couple,” Crowley heard the man whisper to the woman. He glared back at them, and kept glaring until he heard a loud “Ow, my hamstring!” from the man. Crowley glanced at Aziraphale out of the corner of his eye, but Zira hadn’t noticed anything out of the ordinary. He was clutching his yoga mat to his chest and looking like a wounded animal.

Crowley placed a gentle hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder and whispered to him “I’m right here with you, Zira. I have no idea how to do this, either, and I’m going to look so bloody ridiculous that no one will even notice you.” Aziraphale smiled gratefully and nodded his head. 

An hour later, they were both feeling a bit out of their depth,and heads swimming with phrases like “downward dog” and “child’s pose,” but nevertheless oddly peaceful. The low boil of Crowley’s rage had lessened to a firm simmer. Aziraphale’s face showed exhaustion, but he didn’t seem on the verge of tears. _All in all, a good experiment,_ thought Crowley. He guided Aziraphale back to the bookshop, determined to do absolutely everything within his power to ensure Aziraphale got better. He had a whole list of things to work with.

 _And once he’s better,_ Crowley said to Her, _watch out._


	3. Aziraphale Is Clever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale is cranky, but also clever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "My little demon, comin' on down  
> My little demon's turnin' me around  
> All of my friends keep on tellin' me  
> That I just ain't the man I used to be" -- Lindsey Buckingham

Aziraphale trudged through the bookshop into the sitting room, still clutching the yoga mat to his chest. He didn’t look at Crowley, who followed behind him, although Aziraphale could feel eyes boring into his back. The demon’s constant staring was starting to put him on edge.

Aziraphale set the mat down in a corner and collapsed on the couch. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes for a moment, then decided to reach for the pitcher that was sitting on the side table. He poured water into a tumbler and drank it slowly. Crowley paced around the room, continuing to watch Aziraphale like he was… like he was  _ a child  _ or something.

Aziraphale immediately felt guilty. He knew that Crowley was only trying to help him, something that, Aziraphale remembered with a flush, he’d explicitly asked him to do.  _ Still, _ he thought,  _ a little space would be nice. _

He finished his water, and before he could do anything else, Crowley had reached out to take the tumbler from his hand. Crowley took it to the kitchen, then reappeared in the doorway. “How do you feel, Zira? Up for a bite to eat?” Aziraphale noted his eagerness, and didn’t have the heart to tell him that he wasn’t particularly hungry right now.

“I could eat, I suppose…” Aziraphale agreed slowly. “Would it be alright if we waited until after I’ve cleaned up a bit though?” Aziraphale gestured at his now rather sweaty yoga outfit. Crowley looked at it, seeming a bit too surprised for Aziraphale’s liking. Crowley’s own outfit still looked completely fresh and new.

“I could miracle it clean for you, Zira…” began Crowley.

“NO,” snapped Aziraphale. “I’m not a  _ child _ , Crowley, I can take care of it myself.”

Crowley stilled at that. Aziraphale groaned internally at the hunted look on his friend’s face. He knew he’d need to apologize, but right now he was feeling immensely grumpy and… sad.

“Alright, Zira,” murmured Crowley. Aziraphale watched him scratch his head a bit while in thought. “Maybe I’ll clear out of here a bit, give you some space to relax. I need to check in on the plants anyway. Would that… do you think that would be okay?”

Aziraphale felt tears gathering.  _ Not again, _ he sighed to himself. “I think I can manage a few hours alone, Crowley,” he said stiffly. Then, a bit softer, “But perhaps… perhaps later this evening we could … well, maybe we could find something to do together. Watch the telly or something.”

He felt, simply because he couldn’t see, Crowley’s eyes widen behind his sunglasses. Aziraphale had never before been interested in television. He’d always slightly sneered at it, finding his books vastly more  _ educational _ . But now… well, things were different, now.

He watched as Crowley let out a breath, and then nodded. “Sure thing, Zira. I’ll be back later and we can discuss it then.” Crowley held up his cellphone. “You know how to find me if you need anything.”

“I do,” agreed Aziraphale primly. He didn’t want to admit to Crowley how much he was already regretting his desire for time alone. Once Crowley left the flat, the silence began to magnify until Aziraphale started to feel a bit panicked. He decided it was best to get into the bath quickly, before his current mood got out of hand. He didn’t want to break down and have to call Crowley back just because he got a little scared of his own shadow. That, and it wasn’t fair to Crowley to have  _ all _ his time absorbed trying to cater to what Aziraphale was beginning to think of as his  _ weakness _ .

Later than evening, Aziraphale’s stomach was growling fiercely and he was desperate for Crowley to reappear. He was on the verge of picking up the phone and calling him when a knock sounded at the shop door. Aziraphale bustled into the shop room, fully intending to chase away a customer, but startled when he saw the demon’s grin through the door window. Aziraphale trembled a bit in relief and opened the door.

“Alright to come in, Zira?” Crowley looked at him, tentative and unsure. He carried a brown bag in one hand and a giant box sat on the stoop next to him, a picture of a flat screen television on the front. Aziraphale melted at the sight.

“Of course, Crowley. You don’t even need to ask, please come in.” Aziraphale held the door while Crowley lugged the big box across the threshold. “Crowley, what have you been up to?”

“Seems obvious, doesn’t it, Zira?” Crowley grinned again and carried the box into the sitting room. “Thought we’d get the newest model, I’ve been itching to try out the latest technology anyhow. Hope you’re hungry, I brought us some curries to eat while we figure out what to watch.” Aziraphale’s guilt compounded a bit more, but he was relieved that his stomach would soon be full.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Aziraphale was in bed, trying desperately to sleep. He’d been staring at the ceiling for an hour, at least. It was maddening that his body could feel so exhausted but his mind would not rest. He kept thinking about his evening with Crowley. How Crowley had made the time go so quickly, showing Aziraphale how all the latest streaming services worked. Helping Aziraphale decide which show he’d like to watch. They had settled on a lovely documentary series about world-renowned chefs. Aziraphale had enjoyed it more than he thought possible in his current emotional state. He kept thinking about all the new cuisine he hadn’t gotten around to trying yet. Then felt guilty even thinking about eating at all, what with all the extra weight he’d accumulated.

Aziraphale groaned and rolled over for the fifth time.  _ Please, just let me rest _ , he pleaded to Her, or whoever else might be listening. After another fifteen minutes, he gave up, got up out of bed, and wandered back downstairs. Crowley had already cleaned up after their night in. The new pillows and blanket were rearranged neatly on the couch, and the food containers and television packaging were nowhere in sight.

Crowley was lounging on the armchair, looking at his phone. He glanced up at the noise of Aziraphale, and jumped up in alarm. “You need something, Zira?” Aziraphale knew it was childish, and he’d nearly bitten Crowley’s head off for treating him like a child earlier that day, but he felt like pouting a bit.

“I can’t sleep, Crowley,” he looked up at the demon with his tired eyes. “I just want to sleep and I don’t know why I can’t. It’s not fair” He knew he sounded whiny but good heavens it was  _ annoying _ not being able to rest properly. He didn’t know being human could be so  _ difficult _ .

Crowley looked a bit lost. Aziraphale could almost see the thoughts whirling in his head. He could tell that Crowley wanted desperately to help him, but hadn’t a clue how. Aziraphale decided to take a chance.

“Do you think…” Aziraphale started to lose his nerve, then resolved to say it anyway. “Do you think you could… maybe lie down next to me? Keep me company until I fall asleep?” He felt a bit gratified to watch Crowley’s skin flush red, all the way up to the roots of his hair. So he wasn’t the only one feeling a bit awkward these days.

“Uh. S-sure, Zira,” stammered Crowley. Aziraphale couldn’t see behind Crowley’s sunglasses to gauge his reaction, but noticed his adam’s apple bob. “Let me just… turn off the lights down here and I’ll be up there in a bit.”

Aziraphale smiled at Crowley, and sighed in relief. “Oh,  _ thank you _ , Crowley. I know I’m silly but it would help, I think.” Aziraphale climbed back up the stairs and sank into the bed gratefully.  _ It’ll be alright now _ , he thought to himself.

He gathered the blankets around himself and listened. He heard Crowley climb the stairs, then step around to the other side of the bed. Aziraphale felt even calmer once the lanky demon had lowered himself to the bed, facing him. “Are you going to leave your glasses on, really, Crowley?” Aziraphale prodded him. Crowley removed them without comment and set them on the bedside table.

Aziraphale sighed, and finally relaxed into a state that he felt could eventually lead to sleep. “I’m sorry for being so difficult, Crowley,” he whispered. “I wanted to apologize for earlier. I shouldn’t have snapped at you.” Aziraphale waited for a response, which took so long that he began to shift uncomfortably.

Crowley whispered back at him. “Zira, you don’t ever have to apologize to me.”

“But Crowley,” Aziraphale murmured a bit louder. “You’re only trying to help me because I asked you to. It’s not right that you should have to put up with my weaknesses. No matter how long we’ve been friends. I feel so guilty about it all.”

Crowley replied in a wry tone. “Zira, I don’t think you can compete with me when it comes to guilt.” Aziraphale struggled not to argue with him. They were silent for a few moments.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale finally broke the silence, using a lighter tone. “Why did you start calling me Zira? I noticed it the other day. I didn’t want to say anything, with all that’s been going on, but I’ve been wondering about it. You only ever called me Aziraphale or Angel, before. I don’t mind, I’m just … well, a bit curious.”

Aziraphale waited for an answer, long enough to wonder if Crowley had fallen asleep. But the demon’s ragged breathing didn’t sound like sleep, so he kept waiting. Finally he heard a soft intake of breath.

“Zira’s easier to say. Simple as that.” Crowley’s voice was low and throaty.

They rested silently in the dark, each thinking their own thoughts, each feeling unsure what to say next, until they both relaxed enough to finally fall asleep.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Their days began to form a pattern. Aziraphale would sit and look at the paper while Crowley made them a simple breakfast. After that, if Aziraphale was feeling up to it, they’d take a walk through the park or try another yoga class. If Aziraphale was having a particularly rough day, Crowley would sit with him on the couch while they watched home reno shows. Aziraphale had felt he might take some interest in redecorating the flat … someday. When he had more energy.

Crowley would always clear out of the flat for a few hours in the afternoon. Aziraphale often wondered where the demon went, but didn’t want to pry into his friend’s personal life. Besides, it gave Aziraphale a chance to take care of uncomfortably necessary things, like figuring out how to shave or do laundry. He knew that Crowley would just offer to miracle away whatever problem he had, but Aziraphale also knew that was not a long-term solution. 

In the evenings, Crowley would show back up with a tempting takeaway or sometimes even attempt to cook dinner for them. Ms. Scott had put on her list of advice a website called … Aziraphale shuddered to think of it …  _ Healthful and Flavorful Recipes.  _ Aziraphale didn’t have the heart to tell Crowley the truth about the cooking experiments, and so the demon kept trying new dishes for them both.  _ It’s not like he ever eats it, so how would he know _ , Aziraphale would think while struggling to smile through the decidedly un-flavorful meal.

Aziraphale had never asked again, but ever since the first night that he requested Crowley sleep next to him, Crowley had always gone up to bed at the same time as him. The demon would yawn and stretch, and offer Aziraphale a tentative “Time for bed, then?” They’d lie next to each other, sometimes discussing the day and sometimes just in silence. Aziraphale had grown so used to Crowley’s presence next to him while sleeping, that he wasn’t sure what he’d do if the demon decided to … well, sleep elsewhere.

The therapy sessions continued, and Aziraphale began to reveal more and more of his soul pain to the compassionate Ms. Scott. Sometimes he slipped up a bit and mentioned a term like  _ principality _ or  _ apocalypse _ . The good woman seemed to take it all in stride, however, and never tried to accuse him of indulging in a fantasy world. Crowley continued to sit with him at the sessions, but Aziraphale felt a growing distance between them, both physically and emotionally. He would glance at Crowley sometimes while sitting on Ms. Scott’s sofa, trying to guess whether the demon had started to despise him for his weaknesses, but only ever noticed a peculiarly blank expression on his face.

And Aziraphale felt, deep in his formerly angelic soul, that one day Crowley would be moving on. He worried endlessly about the time when Crowley would inevitably grow tired of taking care of a once gloriously powerful angel turned desperately needy human. Aziraphale, instead of focusing on healing, was more often bracing himself for the moment when he’d be left on his own.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

One evening, Crowley arrived back at the flat in a state. His shirt was torn at the collar, his cheek was bleeding from what looked like scratches, and he smelled of … Aziraphale recalled this particularly distressing smell from his trip to hell … brimstone. Aziraphale gawked at him, astonished.

“ _ Crowley _ ,” he cried in terror, “ _ what has happened?”  _ He was taking in every part of the demon, looking for further injury or pain or… he didn’t know what to look for. He started trembling and breathing in quick, short bursts while holding on to Crowley’s arm. “Did someone come after you? Oh Crowley, please tell me you are not hurt.”

“I’m fine, Zira,” Crowley reassured him while gathering Aziraphale to his chest with one arm. He carried the usual takeaway in his other arm.. “It’s nothing for you to worry about, right now, please don’t get upset.”

“Don’t get  _ upset?”  _ Aziraphale cringed at the high and tight sound of his voice, but he was too terrified to modulate it. “Crowley, you smell of  _ them _ .  _ Please _ don’t treat me like a child and tell me  _ what has happened _ .” Aziraphale was shaking visibly now.

“Shhh, shhh, shhh,” Crowley murmured against Aziraphale’s hair while rubbing his back. “I’m so, so sorry to worry you like this Zira. I promise I will tell you everything, but I’d like to set this down and get some water first. I’m frightfully thirsty, Zira.”

Aziraphale leaned away from him, concerned at the strained tone of Crowley’s voice. He pursed his lips and took the containers of food out of Crowley’s arm, then hurried into the kitchen. He filled a tumbler with water and brought it out to Crowley, who had moved into the sitting room and collapsed on the couch. Aziraphale handed him the tumbler and waited while Crowley drank it all in one gulp.

“Do you need more?” Aziraphale asked as calmly as he could manage. Crowley shook his head and Aziraphale took the glass back to the kitchen. He rummaged through the drawers, looking for a first aid kit, before heading back to the sitting room.

His mouth remained in a firm line as he walked to the couch and sat next to Crowley. He sat and began tending to the scratches on Crowley’s check while he waited for the promised explanation. Crowley had promised to explain, and Aziraphale wanted desperately to hear it, but he quaked internally as he listened to Crowley’s shaky breathing. Whatever Crowley was about to tell him couldn’t possibly be worse than what he was already imagining.

Crowley sighed. “Ran into an old friend, Zira, on the way back from picking up our dinner.”

Aziraphale stopped breathing for a second, even as he gently applied ointment to the scratches.

“You see, Zira… “ Aziraphale could hear the wince in Crowley’s voice. “I’ve been making… enquiries. Seems like I may have asked the wrong questions or… perhaps, exactly the right ones.”

Aziraphale paused his attempts to soothe Crowley’s injured face. “Enquiries?” Aziraphale had a thousand questions, but he stopped himself from asking them by force of will.  _ Be quiet and let him explain, Aziraphale, _ he thought to himself.

“Enquiries about … well, asking around about Her. About whether anyone had seen Her lately. Whether anyone knew where She was, or if She had bolted on us.” Crowley’s face was hard to read, but then it always was, lately.

“Bolted on us?” Aziraphale felt very stupid, but he didn’t understand what Crowley was getting at.

“Left us. Not just you and me, Zira. Left… everyone. The universe. Her creation. You see, Zira...” Crowley continued, gazing softly at Aziraphale, “At first I was furious at Her. Still am, if I’m being honest. I just couldn’t understand how She could have turned Her back on you, out of all the others. You were … are … the best of them. Just couldn’t see how it made sense. I thought if I asked the right questions, to the right people, maybe I’d find out that She’d given up on all of us and you could stop feeling so guilty all the time. Although I still pray that I’ll be able to track Her down and then … ” Crowley’s expression turned into something else entirely.

Aziraphale was still focused on the earlier line of thought, though. “You think God has abandoned … everyone?”

“Well She abandoned me a long time ago, Zira, and all I ever bloody did was ask questions.” Crowley’s expression hinted at long-buried pain. “Thought maybe She finally decided to tell everyone else to sod off, too.”

Aziraphale sat back, stunned into silence for a long moment. He’d not even begun to imagine this possibility. Finally the reason for his initial panic seeped back into his consciousness. 

“Why would that line of questioning cause someone to attack you, though? And who was it?” Aziraphale’s mind, although a bit slow lately, was starting to logic its way through this.

“That bastard Dagon,” spat Crowley. “She’s dumber than rocks but mean as a cat. Came out of nowhere, scratching and hissing at me. She kept at it for a minute, then yelled something and ran off.” 

“What did she yell?” murmured Aziraphale as he patted Crowley’s cheek with gauze.

“Oh, she was going on about Beelzebub. ‘Beelz is protecting him’ or something like that. ‘Beelz won’t let you lot near him’ and ‘You can’t use Her to get to him.’ Stuff along those lines that didn’t make a bollocks worth of sense, really. Part of me thinks she just heard me asking around and wanted to show off.”

Aziraphale had stopped moving, his hand in mid-air. “Dagon said that Beelz is protecting …  _ him _ ? Are you sure that’s exactly what she said?”

“Well she was throwing her hands at me the entire time, but … yeah. Thought that part was a bit off. Whatcha thinkin’, Zira?” Aziraphale had noticed that Crowley’s enunciation started to slide somewhat when he was especially tired.

“Not quite sure yet, Crowley. I think I’m done patching you up, now. Is there anything else you haven’t told me?” Aziraphale’s gears were turning, and he wanted to make sure he had the full story.

“Honest, Zira. That’s all of it. I know I’m a big dumb demon but I just … I wanted to help you so badly. I’d do  _ anythin’ _ to stop you hurtin’, Zira. I just…”

It was Aziraphale’s turn to shush him. “Shhh. Just rest for now. Let’s eat and then we can rest for tonight. We’ll start fresh in the morning and think this through with clearer heads.”

“Zira, I…” Crowley looked at him, pained, like he wanted to confess something. Aziraphale waited until he continued. “Just … thank you for lettin’ me explain, that’s all. And not gettin’ more upset.” Aziraphale’s heart hurt at the look on Crowley’s face, but a piece of him healed a bit when he realized how much better he’d gotten at listening lately. He simply smiled and headed into the kitchen to dish up their dinner.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next morning, Aziraphale tucked into an omelet that Crowley had made while pondering how to bring up a particularly distressing memory.

“Your cooking skills are really coming along quite nicely, my dear,” Aziraphale told Crowley between mouthfuls. “This is very tasty.”

Crowley grinned and sipped his coffee. “First time you complimented my cooking, Zira, those practice meals must’ve been truly awful.”

Aziraphale tutted then cleared his throat. “Last evening something occurred to me, or rather, I remembered something that might be relevant. I’d like to tell you about it Crowley, but I don’t want you going off on one of your  _ retributions _ over it.”

Crowley’s gaze darkened. “What is it.” His mouth was set in a line. His hair began to take on that burnished look that it did whenever he was riled up.

“Now Crowley, I want to tell you, I do, but I also don’t want you further endangering yourself. I couldn’t  _ bear _ it if you were hurt again, I really couldn’t. Since I listened while you were honest with me last night, can you listen calmly while I am honest with you?”

Crowley’s jaw was clamped tight and he glared at everything in the room except Aziraphale. Finally he nodded. “I’ll try to be calm, Zira.”

“Just listen and please don’t do anything rash before discussing it with me.  _ Please. _ I’m as concerned for your safety as you are for my health, Crowley. We are in this together, now. Please?” Aziraphale knew that if he gazed at Crowley in just the right way, he’d probably be able to pull this off. Probably.

Crowley groaned and nodded. “Alright, Zira. We’re in it together. Now, tell me before I accidentally set anything on fire.”

Aziraphale sighed and closed his eyes. “Do you remember, just before the apocalypse, we had that tiff outside my bookshop and you drove off in a huff?”

Crowley winced and lowered his head to his arms. His ears were decidedly red. “Zira…”

Aziraphale hurried on. “Anyway, just after you left, a few angels dropped in to chat with me. Well, archangels. Three of them, specifically: Michael, Uriel, and Sandalphon.”

Crowley’s head was still resting on his arms. “Mmhmm. The three dumbarses.”

Aziraphale let that one go. “Well, they were particularly insistent that I was, as they said,  _ consorting _ with the enemy. As you know, everyone had started to suspect that we were working together. I remember very clearly one particular phrase they used during this visit.”

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Spit it out, Zira,” Crowley’s voice was nearer a hiss than Aziraphale would’ve liked.

“Uriel said to me, just before Sandalphon … well,  _ disciplined _ me …”

“He bloody  _ what _ ,” spat Crowley.

“You promised, Crowley, you  _ promised _ to listen.” Aziraphale’s tone was worried.

Crowley stood up and started pacing the room, his arms crossed against his chest.

Aziraphale didn’t know what to do, other than keep talking. “Uriel said to me: ‘Don’t think your boyfriend in the dark glasses will get you special treatment in hell.’”

Crowley froze. Aziraphale watched.

“It’s just that, Crowley, that… at the time, I was terrified of them destroying you, and I was in shock after Sandalphon hit me... “ A cracking sound came from Crowley’s gritted teeth.

Aziraphale hurried on. “So I never thought about how odd that statement was at the time, but when you told me about what Dagon said, I couldn’t help but remember it.”

The scratches on Crowley’s face were sizzling. “Zira, I promise you, if I do nothing else in my whole  _ miserable _ existence, I will get  _ Her _ and then I will get Sandalphon, and when I do, I swear, I will … “

“CROWLEY,” interrupted Aziraphale. “Crowley you  _ must _ be calm.  _ Please. Listen. _ ”

Crowley screamed an anguished cry and threw up his hands. Then he covered his face with them and winced as they brushed against the scratches.

Aziraphale jumped out of his chair and went to Crowley. He lifted a hand to hold Crowley’s jaw while he examined the wound. “Crowley, you’ve made it  _ worse. _ ”

“Zira,” panted Crowley, “I’m going to have to hurt  _ something _ .” Aziraphale looked around, then grabbed the old coal scuttle that he hadn’t used in over a hundred years. He handed it to Crowley.

“Best get it out quickly, dear,” Aziraphale said, then stepped back and waited, closing his eyes tightly. He listened as metal groaned, and Crowley screamed out his rage. A few more seconds passed, and he heard no further sounds of anguish, so he opened his eyes. Crowley was panting, holding a glowing coal-scuttle-turned-ball-of-iron in his right hand. “Better, Crowley?” 

Crowley nodded eventually, and tossed the iron ball into a corner. He stood for quite a long time with his eyes closed. Aziraphale waited; if he continued talking, he wasn’t sure that Crowley would hear it.

Finally, Crowley spoke. “Zira. Please, tell me, quickly.  _ How is this relevant _ to what Dagon said.”

“Ah,” brightened Aziraphale. “That’s the interesting bit. Now, perhaps you remember that Heaven can get rather gossipy. Sometimes, on some of the duller days, well, rumors would float around. Certain angels loafing on the job, you know the sort of thing.”

Crowley had opened his eyes to bare slits, and kept waiting.

Aziraphale continued: “Well, one particularly juicy rumor concerned one of the archangels. It was so very hush-hush that I only happened to hear it on accident at first, and in passing. I was walking past the officer’s station once, back in the days just after the war was won, and heard a couple of higher-ups whispering about it. I didn’t  _ quite _ catch all of it, but what I did hear was extraordinarily intriguing. Of course, at the time, being a young recruit and all, I couldn’t possibly spread the rumor, but I did spend quite a bit of time thinking about it, all the same. And through the years, the rumors just kept flowing.”

“Do you mean…” Crowley spoke, then closed his mouth.

“ _ Gabriel and Beelzebub _ , Crowley. Did they ever get whispered about down in hell?”

Crowley blinked. “Lots of things get whispered about down in hell. But, yes.”

Aziraphale leaned back in glee, as if a point had been scored. Crowley just looked confused.

“Okay, so Gabriel and Beelzebub had a fling, or whatever. Still not getting how that relates to what Dagon said.” Crowley’s hand brushed at his cheek absently, and he flinched when he realized that it was still steaming.

“You keep irritating it, Crowley,” Aziraphale frowned. “I’ll have to put more ointment on it.”

“ _ Aziraphale. _ ” Crowley looked at the end of his rope. 

Aziraphale sighed, and realized he was in danger of exhausting himself with all this explaining. “I think it was rather more than a fling, dear boy. There were rumors that Gabriel might defect.”

Aziraphale gazed softly at Crowley. “That line about my boyfriend getting me special treatment seems important. Now you’d know better than I would, my dear, but if you are I were … together … would that truly get me special treatment in hell?”

Crowley stared at Aziraphale. “Well, yeah. Consorts are basically off-limits.”

Aziraphale hummed, pleased at his logic. “Mmhmm. Now, just supposing that Gabriel did defect, and hell gave him special treatment, under what circumstances would he need Beelzebub’s special protection? The kind that Dagon may have been referring to?”

Crowley looked at Aziraphale. “Well, only if he’d lost his powers, I presume...”

“Think about it, Crowley. What if I’m not the only one that’s lost their powers? What if you’re right and … “ Aziraphale shuddered. “What if She’s turned her back on all of us? Even Gabriel? How would we know for sure? We’ve been holed up down here for too long.”

Crowley looked unconvinced. “I dunno, Zira… I mean,  _ maybe _ , but…”

Aziraphale was thoroughly out of gas, but knew he was onto something. “Well, Crowley, perhaps I’m wrong. But perhaps I’m right. Either way, I think it’s worth pursuing. I want to find out the truth about what’s really going on. And I want us to do it  _ together. _ ”

Aziraphale knew he’d won when Crowley let out a long sigh. “Alright, Zira. I can’t promise I won’t destroy them all in the end, but I’ll do it by your side if I do.”

Aziraphale felt a small spark of joy, for the first time in a very long while.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Down in the deep dank basement of hell, Beelzebub sat on Hell’s throne, listening in growing despair to Dagon’s account of her assault on Crowley.

“You idiot,” yelled Beelzebub. “I told you to put some fear into him, not give away secrets.”

“I didn’t tell him nothin’,” whined Dagon. “Just told him they couldn’t get to  _ him _ .”

The horde of flies that was settled around Beelzebub got noisier. “I told you very plainly, Dagon, not to mention Gabriel  _ at all _ . You couldn’t do even that one thing right.”

“I didn’t say Gabriel,” Dagon continued. “Didn’t say it once. Nobody knows nothin’, anyway, Beelz. You’re just gettin’ paranoid over your boyfriend.”

Beelzebub reached out in an attempt to slap Dagon, who deftly jumped out of the way.

“I scratched Crowley up real good, Beelz, he’ll cool it with his stupid questions now,” giggled Dagon.

“You’d better hope so, old girl,” warned Beelzebub grimly. “For all our sakes.”

Dagon danced away to a tune that existed only in her own mind. Beelzebub sat and sighed, deeply. She glanced around to see if anyone was watching, then drew a photo from her pocket. She stared at it for a long while before slipping it back into her pocket. She stood up, then walked over to a padlocked door that only she carried a key to.

The horde of flies that buzzed around her gradually began to disperse. Her hellish appearance softened somewhat before she unlocked the door and stepped inside. She double-checked to make sure no one was around to hear. “Are you feeling any better today, lover of mine,” she whispered, as she shut the door behind her and locked it firmly.


	4. Crowley is Emotional

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley has lots of emotions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "He will bring orchids for my lady,  
> The perfume will be of an excellent style  
> And apart from that he'll be so kind  
> In consenting to blow your mind." -- Donovan

Lately Crowley had been careening between a multitude of emotions. First, and most powerful, was his effervescent anger. After Aziraphale let slip what Sandalphon had done to him, Crowley had spent hours imagining all the ways he would take Sandalphon apart, piece by piece. He had spent even more hours trying to imagine what Sandalphon loved most in the universe so that Crowley could find it and, very slowly and very thoroughly, hurt it. Of course Crowley still raged against God, but Sandalphon seemed a more accessible target these days.

Another emotion Crowley felt, in the spaces between the eruptions of rage, was tenderness. Tenderness for Aziraphale: for his pride, and for his pain. When Crowley was not thinking about Sandalphon, his restless brain was casting about for new ways he could help Aziraphale heal. He sorted through recipe after recipe, trying to guess which one Aziraphale would like best. He researched new places they could walk together, places that would give Aziraphale some scenic variety but that wouldn’t tire him out too much. And he would plan what topics to bring up at the end of the day; topics suited to ease Aziraphale gently to sleep while they were lying in bed together.

_In bed together_ . That bit had added yet another layer of emotion: terror. When Aziraphale had asked Crowley to lie down beside him the first time, Crowley wasn’t sure what to expect. Now that he knew Aziraphale simply wanted the comfort of another creature nearby while he slept, Crowley was a shade calmer -- but still terrified. He wanted Aziraphale to be calm, he wanted Aziraphale to feel safe, but he wanted selfish things too. He wanted to hold Aziraphale in his arms at the end of the day. He wanted to brush his lips against Aziraphale’s forehead. He wanted to _confess_ , and he wanted Aziraphale to be his confessor.

The trouble was, the day Crowley had chosen to actually _verbalize_ his wants to Aziraphale -- wants he’d lived with for more centuries than he was comfortable thinking about -- turned out to be the same day that Aziraphale had taken a swan dive out of God’s good graces and crash landed into a human body. _I bet She thought that was funny._ Ever since, Crowley had lived his constant see-saw of emotions, and imagined that God was up there gleefully watching, as if his life was a hilariously snark-worthy episode of reality television. 

And now, just to spice things up, fear had been added to the mix. Fear that maybe God really had left Aziraphale. Fear that he would have to go back down to Hell to find answers, and that Aziraphale would insist on accompanying him. The thought of Aziraphale facing Hell in his current state was simply impossible to Crowley. He literally could not fathom it. He’d spent the last few weeks focusing on getting Zira better. Taking him back to that nightmare realm of tortured souls … Crowley’s brain shut down at the thought. Locked the door, drew the shutters, and hung up a sign that said ‘ _Nope._ ’

But… Aziraphale. Even at his most wounded, even in the worst pain of his existence, Zira was a force. Crowley lived in awe of the tenacity of the angel. He had promised Aziraphale not to do anything rash. Or rather, Aziraphale had made him promise it. Crowley had not yet decided which way that promise would go. The only thing keeping him in check was: Zira needed him. Crowley couldn’t just up and trek down to Hell all by himself. If it were possible to get down there and ask Beelz himself, with no one else around, he might be able to escape unscathed. But… what if he couldn’t? What if they threw him back down into a pit and he couldn’t get back to Aziraphale? And what if … Crowley’s jaw worked every time this thought popped into his brain … what if Zira really was human now? He half-doubted it, he couldn’t quite believe God would be so truly hateful, but what if it were true, and Crowley got stuck in Hell, and Zira had to live out a human life alone, hurt and terrified and… _No_. 

No, much better to work together as a team. They were partners in figuring this out, Aziraphale had said in their latest pre-sleep conversation. When Crowley had heard that word, a glad burst of joy had drowned out all of the rest of his raging emotions for a moment. Partners. It sounded good.

Their new agreement to solve this together had changed Aziraphale. He seemed even more determined now to rise above his ‘failings’ as he called them. He had requested, to Crowley’s astonishment, that they start eating extra veg at dinner. He had even suggested a longer daily walk through the park, something that Aziraphale had been hesitant to take on for weeks. The day of Aziraphale’s next therapy appointment, he’d eaten his breakfast quietly. Once Crowley had finished his coffee, and Aziraphale had finished his fruit bowl, the angel had reached a hand out and rested it on top of his.

“My dear, I think perhaps it’s time I went to my therapy sessions alone,” he’d said, softly. “I’m feeling better now, at least I believe my mind is working a bit more steadily than it was. And I really don’t want to infringe on your good nature any further.”

“Zira, it’s not a problem at all.” Crowley protested, thinking Aziraphale was trying to once again get him off the hook because he was feeling guilty.

“I know, Crowley. I trust that you would tell me, if it were. But I truly think it’s time. I am determined to find a way out of this. And if you remember, last week Ms. Scott said that she thought I was ready for a solo appointment.”

Crowley nodded. She had, it was true. His heart ached for his angel, but he could see the sense in it.

“Can I at least drive you to the appointment? I’ll wait outside just in case.” Crowley was still worried.

“This time, yes, Crowley. But I suspect that next week, I will want to make the trip alone. I hope you understand that it’s not your presence I object to. I simply need to do this, especially if we are going to face what needs to be faced.” Aziraphale was resolute, and Crowley couldn’t stop himself from agreeing that it was for the best.

They sat in silence for a moment,until Crowley surprised himself by saying aloud: “Aziraphale, do you know how much I’ve always admired your determination?”

Aziraphale’s eyes softened a bit and the old, familiar smile that Crowley had forgotten how much he yearned for appeared on the angel’s lips. “I think I do, my dear. Almost as much as I’ve always admired your kind heart, I suspect.”

This much regard was just a bit more than Crowley’s demonic heart could handle, and he fled the kitchen with a growl for the safe harbor of the telly.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Crowley sat in the Bentley, which was currently parked outside the therapist’s office, while waiting for Aziraphale to finish up his appointment. Crowley had hummed his way through five Queen songs, and was now drumming out _We Will Rock You_ on the steering wheel. He was halfway through the first chorus when a hand reached out from the backseat and clamped around his mouth.

Crowley jumped, and before he could react further, heard a familiar buzzing voice. “Keep quiet, Crowley, or you won’t like what happens next. I’m just here to talk. Can you keep your big dumb mouth shut long enough for that?”

_Beelzebub._ Crowley nodded and she relaxed her grip on his face. Crowley spit out the unpleasant taste her hand had left on his mouth, then brushed flies away as he turned around in the seat to look at her.

“To what do I owe this immense honor,” started Crowley.

“Zip it, demon,” clipped Beelzebub. “Don’t particularly want to deal with your little zingers right now. I’m here to tell you that, whatever you and your boyfriend are planning, it’s going to backfire on you.”

“Now how would you know whether or not we’re planning anything, Beelz?” Crowley desperately wished Aziraphale was here with him so he could play this right. Zira would be clever enough to ask the right questions.

“Don’t be daft, Crowley. We’ve all heard you asking around. I know your boyfriend has a grudge and I’m telling you, back off.” Beelzebub gave him the glowing eyes treatment in an effort to intimidate him, but Crowley wasn’t about to let this opportunity go.

“Grudge? What kind of grudge are you talking about, Beelz?” He did his best to sound stupid.

Beelzebub buzzed in frustration. “I know about how heaven tried to destroy him.”

Crowley nodded, and acted like he was thinking it over. “I see. And you think he’s planning to … get back at heaven somehow?”

“Why else would you be asking around about … Her? You two think you can take the whole place over? Start coming after everyone that tried to hurt you? I’m telling you to drop it, Crowley, for your own good.” Beelzebub’s constant horde of flies was starting to fill up the cabin of the Bentley, and Crowley was running out of patience.

“Uh huh. And just so I understand all of this, Beelz, explain to me, if we did start going after the angels that tried to destroy Aziraphale, how would that affect you, exactly?” Crowley sat back, feeling a bit smug at his cleverness.

“I knew I should have just —“ Whatever Beelzebub was about to say next was cut off, as Aziraphale opened the car door and settled into the passenger seat.

“Oh, Crowley, this session was so helpful! I feel better than I have yet. I’m starting to think —“ Aziraphale suddenly stopped chattering at the sound of Crowley’s low groan.

“Better? You’re feeling better? What’s wrong with you?” _Beelzebub’s almost as quick as Aziraphale,_ thought Crowley. He began plotting ways to get Aziraphale out of this situation as quickly as possible. 

Aziraphale turned, slowly, to look at Beelzebub. His face went white and Crowley could see the angel was thoroughly frightened.

“Beelz decided to drop in for a visit, Zira, as you can see,” Crowley said as he reached out to pat Aziraphale’s hand. He gripped it and held on for a moment, hoping desperately that Aziraphale would stay calm.

Aziaphale’s mouth opened and closed, then he nodded gracefully. “Lord Beelzebub,” he greeted her, as if they were at a garden party.

“Come off it, you two. Something’s up. What’s wrong with you, is it the same thing that’s happening to — “ she stopped herself and clamped her mouth shut.

“To Gabriel?” Aziraphale dropped the name and Crowley gaped at him. _So much for spycraft_ , thought Crowley.

Beelzebub’s face looked like sour milk. Then she sighed. “I knew that Dagon screwed this up. I knew it.”

Aziraphale looked at Beelzebub with more softness than Crowley felt she deserved. “Is Gabriel unwell? I’m so sorry to hear it, truly.” Aziraphale’s voice was soft and sounded genuine. Either he was an exceptional actor (and Crowley knew for a fact that he was not) or Aziraphale really meant what he’d said.

Beelzebub’s eyes looked dim. “I just want him to feel better. Please tell me, if you know what’s going on.” The sad drone in her voice made Crowley feel almost sorry for her. 

“Oh, Lord Beelzebub,” sighed Aziraphale. Perhaps it’s best if you took us to him.”

Beelzebub screeched at that. “I’m not letting you near him, he’s under my protection.”

Aziraphale nodded his head. “I understand, but I couldn’t harm Gabriel, not even if I wanted to. If he’s suffering from the same illness that I am, then you know that’s the absolute truth.”

Beelzebub looked at Aziraphale. Then Crowley. She gave a quick nod. But her eyes glowed again as she buzzed out: “Fine. But if you’re lying, believe me, I will destroy you both, one piece at a time, in front of each other, so that each of you can hear the other’s screams.” Her anger filled the Bentley with so many flies that they could no longer see her. Crowley cursed under his breath, thinking about the mess he’d have to clean up later, but had to admit that he understood where she was coming from.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Aziraphale was flushed and had lines of his fatigue on his face, but seemed to have found a new reserve of energy. He was sitting at his desk, compiling a list of things they might need on their trip down to Hell.

Crowley was getting frustrated with it all. “Zira, if there’s something you need down there, I’ll just miracle it for you. There’s no need for all this work. You should be resting.”

Aziraphale, was, as usual lately, determined despite Crowley’s worry. “I need to plan this out, my dear,” he said firmly while glancing at Crowley. “What if, Heaven forbid, something happens to you down in Hell and I have to carry on alone? What if Hastur gets hold of you?“

Crowley became overwhelmed at the thought of Aziraphale having to find his way out of Hell alone. He jumped up from his perch on the couch and started pacing the room frantically. He wrung his hands and struggled to find a way to convince Aziraphale that this really was not a good idea.

“Zira, please, I don’t think I can do this. I just can’t. We have been safe enough here in the flat, just the two of us, haven’t we? You’ve been getting better, can’t we just forget all this? It’s just not worth the risk.”

Aziraphale gazed at him, watching Crowley’s movements carefully. He sighed deeply, then stood up and walked over to Crowley. Aziraphale put his hand out, and waited. Crowley couldn’t do anything else other than grasp it, and be led to the couch. Aziraphale sat down and patted the cushion next to him.

Crowley cursed himself and sat. _I’m falling apart again, when it’s Aziraphale that needs help._

“Crowley,” Aziraphale started in an even tone. “We’ve been through this. If there’s a chance to find out what’s really going on, we’re going to do it together. Why don’t you tell me what’s really bothering you.”

“What’s really bothering me? What’s really bothering me?” Crowley’s tone was altogether too high and needy sounding for a demon, so he growled himself into a lower register. “Zira, it’s dangerous. It’s so, so, dangerous.”

“You survived for quite a long time in Hell, Crowley. I understand how difficult — how traumatizing that must have been for you.” Aziraphale let go of Crowley’s hand, then lifted it to smooth a stray lock of Crowley’s hair. When he did that, Crowley’s hair felt like singing. He threatened it under his breath and it cowered back into silent obedience.

“Zira, this is not the point. I was a demon. I could survive down there. You — you — “ Crowley stammered and looked down, hands balled into fists, His sunglasses shifted down to the end of his nose, and he impatiently shoved them back up into position.

Aziraphale reached up and gently removed Crowley’s glasses from his face. Crowley froze and squeezed his eyelids together. “Crowley, please look at me.” Aziraphale was gentle, but firm.

“Can’t.” Crowley couldn’t do it. Just couldn’t.

“Crowley, please? For me?” Aziraphale went back to stroking a lock of Crowley’s hair. Gently, so gently, and Crowley started to shake.

“Zira…” Crowley murmured. “You know what could happen. You might … “ Crowley’s throat betrayed him for one half of one second with a low keening noise, before he stuffed it down hard. This was too much to bear. He could not do this again. Not after they’d settled into this life; not a perfect life, but a life, together. He needed it to continue. Without Aziraphale, without a constant to return to, Crowley would … he didn’t want to think about what it was like, before Aziraphale. When the only purpose in his life was to inflict pain and suffering on others, then inflict pain and suffering on himself at the guilt of it all.

“Oh, my dear,” whispered Aziraphale. “Oh my poor, dear, Crowley.” Aziraphale wrapped his arms around Crowley and held on, resting his head on Crowley’s shoulder.

Crowley shuddered and held Aziraphale’s arm. “Zira, I’m afraid of what I’d become if something happened to you.”

“But, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, lowly, “If I am indeed human now, we both know my time is limited.”

Crowley growled a deep frustrated noise. It felt like festering wound was being probed, and he remembered that feeling distinctly from his time in Hell. “But what if you’re not truly human, and it’s just … what if it’s just a block?” Crowley was grasping for something, anything, that would give him a bit of hope.

“I’ve considered that,” admitted Aziraphale. _Of course he had_. “Unfortunately, without more time, and a great deal of research, I am not sure how to go about finding out if there’s a psychological solution. What I need more than anything right now is information. And, my guess is, Gabriel is the one that has it. If I’m to regain my powers, I need that information and I need it quickly.

“Now I think I understand a bit better what exactly you’re afraid of. Will you trust me that this is our best chance right now to get everything back to the way it was?” Aziraphale’s arms wrapped around Crowley’s body had calmed him enough that he was able to make a confession.

“But that’s the thing, Zira,” he whispered. “I don’t want it to go back to the way it was.”

Aziraphale looked at him, evenly.

“I like it the way it is now,” continued Crowley, shyly. “Not that I like you being sick, or in pain, or sad. I hate that part. What I like is being here with you, just us, just living, just like this.” Crowley forced himself to look into Aziraphale’s eyes, and hoped that the Angel was clever enough to understand what he was trying to say.

Aziraphale eyes were so, so blue. Aziraphale, his clever, determined, angel. Aziraphale who’d always managed to find a way out of a predicament, even if it was through Crowley. 

“I think, Crowley, that I finally understand what you meant when you asked me how someone so clever could be so stupid.” Aziraphale’s voice was low and thoughtful.

Crowley made a wounded noise and his eyes screwed shut again. “Zira, please …”

His words were cut off by the press of Aziraphale’s lips against his own.

Crowley’s eyes flew open in shock. _Did that just happen?_ Aziraphale had an odd look on his face. 

“I apologize, Crowley,” offered Aziraphale, who looked just a tad bit guilty. “I probably should have asked first.”

Crowley just stared at him, dumbly. Stared into Aziraphale’s eyes. Then shifted his gaze, to Aziraphale’s lips.

Aziraphale whispered softly. “Crowley,” he prompted, “I wouldn’t presume to do it again without your permission.”

“It’s … it’s…. it’s fine, Zira,” breathed Crowley. He knew that every inch of his skin had turned a deep shade of red that had probably not existed in the universe before this moment. “Could you …again?” Crowley strangled on the words.

“Certainly, my dear, lovely, kind, patient Crowley,” Aziraphale replied. He placed both of his hands gently on either side of Crowley’s face, burying his fingers a bit in Crowley’s hair. He leaned in and slowly pressed his lips against Crowley’s mouth, and lingered there. 

Something deep in Crowley’s gut, long buried and forgotten, stirred in that moment. He wasn’t sure what it was, couldn’t remember, but he felt it all the same. He was still struggling to parse the feeling of Aziraphale’s lips on his, and had no room in his brain to analyze anything else.

Aziraphale ended the kiss and leaned back, smiling gently. “God bless the humans and the things they come up with, don’t you think, Crowley? Now, if you’ll wait just a few moments, I’ll finish up this list and we can get some rest before our trip tomorrow. Agreed?”

Crowley could do absolutely nothing other than nod dumbly and wait to follow his angel up to bed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

At noon the next day, they were in the Bentley on their way to meet Beelzebub. She’d wanted to have this meeting at a time when most demons would be asleep, and Crowley was not about to argue with that. They were to meet at the back entrance to Hell, which was simply a hidden staircase behind a chips stand.

Aziraphale was going through his list, _again_ , ticking off items to make sure he’d included them in his backpack. Where in the world he’d managed to find a tartan backpack, Crowley was afraid to ask. He drove in growing anxiety while Aziraphale chattered his way through the list.

“A bottle of water, in case of thirst; a thermos of tea, same reason; a fresh necktie in case of damp…”

“Please say it isn’t tartan,” groaned Crowley.

Aziraphale looked at him sideways, then continued: “Paracetamol, for aches and pains; first aid kit, for when Crowley inevitably hurts himself; bouquet of flowers…”

“Flowers? What in the world are you gonna do with flowers in Hell, Zira?” Crowley growled and drove faster. He slammed on the brakes when he saw Beelzebub standing on the next corner. He miracled a parked car one street over, then rolled into the now empty parking space.

“They’re pretty,” responded Aziraphale, once the Bentley was settled. He checked his list one final time. “Right, got everything, let’s go,” said Aziraphale.

Crowley touched Airaphale’s arm and looked at him, closely, for a moment. “Alright, Zira? Are you sure?” 

“I’m sure, dear one,” said Aziraphale, lifting a hand to Crowley’s cheek. “I have been there before, and I know what to expect.”

Crowley gathered himself. “Alright. Gabriel, here we come,” said Crowley in his most favorite retributional tone. _And Satan help anyone that hurts my Zira._


	5. Gabriel Is A Mess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale trek down to Hell to talk to Gabriel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “You believe in the system from the top on down   
> Potential is a beautiful thing   
> It's hard to keep believing in the big time   
> Now you're sinking in the wind   
> Star light, star bright   
> Somebody going down tonight ” -- Buffy Sainte-Marie

“You goin’ to sneak into Hell dressed like  _ that _ ,” Beelzebub was incredulous as she looked Aziraphale up and down. “Satan save us.”

Aziraphale looked down at his standard cream shirt, trousers, and bowtie. He had thought the tartan backpack added just the right touch to the ensemble. Of all the planning he’d done, this particular issue hadn’t occurred to him.

He looked up at Crowley. “Oh dear,” he worried, “I didn’t quite think the outfit through. What shall I do?”

Crowley sighed and snapped his fingers. Aziraphale’s outfit changed to a scruffy black shirt and torn black sweatpants, and the backpack was now a battered filthy nylon thing.

“Crowley,” gasped Aziraphale.

“Alright, alright, keep your shirt on,” smirked Crowley, as he snapped again, changing Aziraphale’s pants to patched black corduroys. “You want to blend in, don’t you, Zira? Or do you  _ want _ some demon clutching at you while we’re down there?”

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow, and Crowley blushed.

“You two loverboys done yet,” broke in Beelzebub.

Aziraphale turned gracefully in her direction and bowed. “After you, madam,” he simpered.

Beelzebub rolled her eyes, then unlocked the staircase to Hell and started to descend. “Keep your traps shut, and if anybody starts asking questions, let me deal with them,” she warned. “I don’t fancy losing my throne ‘cause of two incompetent idiots.”

Crowley and Aziraphale looked at each other, shrugged, then followed. As they began the descent, the smell of brimstone became more pervasive. It also began to irritate Aziraphale. He took a scented handkerchief from the backpack and held it up to his nose.

“Already, Zira?” Crowley said, looking at Aziraphale with a mixture of concern and exasperation. “It’s only gonna get worse.”

“I’ll be fine,” Aziraphale retorted. “I’m merely trying to adjust at my own speed, so please keep your criticisms to yourself, if you don’t mind.”

Crowley mumbled under his breath and Beelzebub hissed back at them. “Would you two  _ shut it _ .”

They carried on until they reached the bottom of the staircase. Stepping out into a larger room, Aziraphale recalled the grim experience of his first time here. He’d almost forgotten, but this place was  _ filthy _ . At least the constant moaning wasn’t too obvious this time. At this hour, Hell was relatively quiet, but Aziraphale noticed demon movement in the corners nonetheless. He followed Beelzebub closely, tense and alert.

They walked through the large room until Beelzebub signaled them to stop, and then hissed at them to hide behind a concrete pillar. “Stay there, and keep quiet, until I come back for you,” she warned them. “And no funny business.”

Aziraphale stood, peering out from behind the pillar, as Beelzebub walked ahead a few yards. Crowley hovered close, with an only slightly worried look on his face.  _ At least he’s holding it together _ , thought Aziraphale. 

They watched as Beelzebub walked forward, pausing to greet a demon that was carrying a clipboard. The two had a quick conversation that seemed almost ridiculously boring, from Aziraphale’s perspective. The demon was pointing at the clipboard and Beelzebub was nodding at regular intervals. 

Aziraphale looked questioningly at Crowley, wondering whether this was something to be concerned about. Crowley gave a soft smile of reassurance, then reached out and grabbed Aziraphale’s hand. He squeezed it gently. Aziraphale squeezed back.

Eventually the demon with the clipboard finished his report and walked off. Beelzebub came back to retrieve them, but didn’t comment on her encounter. “This way,” she pointed at a particularly dark hallway.

They started trekking down the long, deserted hallway. So far Hell was proving to be remarkably dull, at least compared to Aziraphale’s first trip. Aziraphale couldn’t see the end of the hallway coming anytime soon. He tried to pace himself for a long trek.  _ Thank Heaven I brought refreshments _ , he thought.  _ This could take awhile. _

Finally the hallway ended. They rounded a corner into yet another hallway and Aziraphale’s heart leapt into his throat. A pile of demons blocked their path. A literal pile of literal demons. Aziraphale yelped, tensed to turn and run back, but Crowley’s hand settled on his shoulder and stopped him.

“It’s just a demon pile, Zira. Remember what I told you about them?” Crowley’s murmur was low and reassuring. Aziraphale did remember the story, but honestly thought that Crowley had been making it up. Apparently demons, after a long night of doing whatever demonic work they had to do, would sometimes drop to the floor the second their shift ended and start sleeping. Within minutes, other passing demons would decide to pile on until they created a small mountain that would deter just about anyone. Nothing would move them until they decided collectively to wake up and get back to work. The pile in front of Aziraphale contained thirty or more demons, easily. They were writhing and snoring together, blocking the path quite effectively.

Beelzebub groaned and swore, loudly. “Lazy bloody arseholes. Well there’s nothing for it, we’ll have to walk over them.”

Aziraphale felt utterly horrified. Crowley whispered in his ear: “They won’t even notice, Zira. If you want, I can carry you across.”

Aziraphale shook his head, and held the handkerchief closer to his nose. “I’ll manage,” he whispered, feeling grim and miserable, but determined. “I knew this would be difficult.”

Crowley gave him a skeptical look, but didn’t argue. They moved forward, and Aziraphale tried to follow Beelzebub’s steps as best he could. It was difficult to climb and desperately squelchy in some places, and Aziraphale fought his rising panic as he forced himself to keep going.

To Aziraphale’s relief, they eventually cleared the pile without awakening anyone. Nonetheless, Aziraphale’s breathing felt far too quick and his heart was beating fast.  _ Crowley was right _ , he thought.  _ This is simply too much _ . He felt the demon’s hand holding his again, and looked up into his eyes for reassurance. Instead of being reassured, Aziraphale became more concerned, because Crowley looked miserable. His entire body was tensed, he was sweating, and his skin kept showing patches of scales. Aziraphale forgot his own panic in concern for the demon’s discomfort.  _ Maybe he spent too long in one of these piles _ , thought Aziraphale.

Beelzebub led them away, muttering something about _lazy useless stupid_ _creatures_. Their pace was considerably slower as they walked the rest of the hallway, and Aziraphale struggled to keep his hand steady in Crowley’s grip. _Please let us reach Gabriel soon._

Finally, they stepped out into a cavernous room. A single throne made of twisted, rusting metal sat on a dais. They saw Dagon sitting on it, holding something in her hand that she kept twirling around. She’d giggle as it twirled, then pout as it slowed. Once it stopped she’d set it moving again, watching in hypnotized enjoyment.

Aziraphale finally realized what she held, then gave the most reproachful look he could summon to Crowley.  _ A fidget spinner _ . Aziraphale knew who’d come up with that particularly infernal gadget, and watched as a slow flush passed over the demon’s features.

“It’s keeping her occupied, isn’t it,” whispered Crowley with a defensive hiss.

Beelzebub looked around for anyone else that might notice them. Evidently she felt it was safe enough to continue. She began to creep, more slowly than Aziraphale had moved on even his worst days, keeping close to the wall and watching Dagon. They inched closer to a locked door. Dagon seemed thoroughly engrossed, and thank Heaven, thought Aziraphale, did not notice them.

Finally, Beelzebub reached the door and took a key from a chain around her neck. Quietly and quickly she unlocked the padlock and opened the door, then gestured Aziraphale and Crowley inside. They slipped past and Beelzebub followed them, closing the door silently. All three of them sighed in relief.

Aziraphale stood a moment, trying to still his trembling breath. That had been quite a lot to deal with, and they weren’t even through the hardest bit yet. He glanced at Beelzebub and Crowley, and held up a finger. He had developed a fierce headache and needed some pain relief before continuing. The paracetamol went down bitter, but a few sips of water helped that. He noticed the other two seemed to be just as anxious as he was, so he took his time gathering himself.  _ Best if we all take a breath or two. _

As he stood, Aziraphale looked around at the room they’d entered. It was remarkably drab, even considering he was in Hell, with gray concrete walls and flickering fluorescent lights. There was a makeshift pallet in one corner, and what looked like piles of discarded animal bones in another.  _ This looks truly terrible, _ thought Aziraphale.  _ Poor Gabriel. At least I have the comfort of my own shop. _

“Where is Gabriel, then?” Aziraphale looked around for his former superior. 

“Oh, he complained on and on about how dirty he was, so I conjured him a bathroom,” Beelzebub grimaced. “He’s been so  _ difficult  _ lately. I’ll go get him.”

Beelzebub walked over to a smaller door that Aziraphale hadn’t noticed, hidden deep in the shadow of the far wall. She jiggled the knob and called out. “Open up, love, got company here to see you.”

“Go away,” yelled a loud yet whiny voice. “I told you, I don’t want to see anybody.” Aziraphale was taken aback by how pitiful that voice sounded. It didn’t even… well, it didn’t even sound like Gabriel at all. He started to doubt his judgment, and wondered if they’d fallen for a trap.

“Would you get out here, already,” yelled Beelzebub. “I brought these two to help you, so don’t be an ungrateful brat.”

She got no response to that, so she swung the door open and disappeared inside. A few moments later, after a loud slosh of water and a distinctly undignified yelp, Beelzebub came back to the main room, pulling a damp and disgruntled figure behind her.

Aziraphale inhaled sharply. This was Gabriel, alright, but he looked like … well, there was no other word for it. He looked like hell. He was clad in a robe, dingy and torn and stained with grease. His eyes were bloodshot and his cheeks hollowed. He was gnawing on what appeared to be a chicken leg. This … this was ‘ _ I do not sully the temple of my celestial body with gross matter’ _ Gabriel? Aziraphale felt a surge of true pity for him, despite everything.

Aziraphale glanced at Crowley, who looked decidedly un-pitying. In fact, Crowley looked more gleeful than Aziraphale had seen him since before his long nap. Crowley crossed his arms over his chest and let out a low chuckle. “What happened to you, Gabriel? Got a taste of your own medicine, did you?” Aziraphale touched his arm, but Crowley didn’t show any signs of softening. 

Gabriel wrinkled his nose, as if he were smelling something foul.  _ He probably is, to be fair _ , thought Aziraphale. “Look who it is,” Gabriel huffed out, defiant as ever, “Tweedledee and Tweedledum.”

Crowley took a step in Gabriel’s direction with hands tightened into fists. Aziraphale grabbed his arm and pulled him back. “Crowley! That is not going to help,” he pleaded. The flies around Beelzebub’s head began to multiply as she stepped in front of Gabriel, screeching at them both to keep their distance.

“Wanker hasn’t learned a thing, Zira, look at him,” countered Crowley. Aziraphale couldn’t deny that Gabriel seemed inordinately cocky despite his miserable appearance, but the angel also had learned a thing or two from his books and his time in therapy.

He watched as Gabriel began swatting flies away from his face. Gabriel seemed utterly annoyed as he turned to Beelzebub. “Could you not right now,” he grimaced at her.

Beelzebub seemed on the verge of a biting retort when Aziraphale stepped forward. “If I may interject,” he said, “I brought a gift.” 

Gabriel and Beelzebub stopped and stared as Aziraphale drew the bouquet of flowers from his bag. “Crowley, my dear, if you wouldn’t mind, we need a vase with water and a small table to set it on.”

Crowley’s mouth opened as if to protest, but then he shrugged and miracled the requested items anyway. Aziraphale gave him his most grateful smile, then put the flowers in the vase and set it on the table. He moved the table to the only corner of the room that wasn’t occupied, and stood back to wait for a moment.

Everyone continued to stare at him as if he were unhinged, until Beelzebub’s flies began to float away from her face and over toward the flowers. Soon enough Gabriel was able to stop swatting.  _ Thank Heaven that worked, _ thought Aziraphale. He noticed out of the corner of his eye that Crowley was giving him a rather awed look, which felt immensely gratifying.

“Now, shall we talk? I don’t know about you two, but I could use a nice comfy chair after that long walk,” prompted Aziraphale, again giving Crowley the look that he’d found would spur him on to quickest action. It was ridiculously pouty in Aziraphale’s opinion, but it always worked on the demon.

Four comfortable chairs appeared, or at least comfortable by Hell’s meager standards. Aziraphale settled himself in the nearest one, and waited for the others to follow suit. He used the time to gather himself for the battle ahead.

Crowley sat next to him, followed by Beelzebub, who sat in a chair opposite. Finally Gabriel flopped down into the chair next to her like a sulky child. Between Crowley’s anger, Beelzebub’s worry, and Gabriel’s defensiveness, Aziraphale knew that this could be a very challenging conversation. He sighed to himself, then began.

“Now, I know that none of us are particularly happy to be here,” he began.

“No shit, Sherlock,” muttered Gabriel. Beelzebub rolled her eyes. Crowley growled. Aziraphale let it go for a moment, then continued.

“However, I have some idea of what you’re going through, Gabriel, and I’d like to offer you some help. In exchange for information, of course.” Aziraphale sat and waited to see what kind of response would result from this.

Gabriel’s gaze was steely. Not for nothing was he the premier archangel, remembered Aziraphale. Beelzebub, however, was a different story. “Please just tell us, Aziraphale. I brought you here to help him. I’ve never seen him like this, and I can’t stand it.”

Gabriel gave Beelzebub a look of disgust. “Wish I’d never set eyes on you,” he murmured. 

“See what I mean,” Beelzebub continued. “He’s never acted like this before. Now no matter what I do to help, all he does is snipe at me like  _ I’m _ the enemy or something.” Beelzebub looked angry, frustrated, and lost.

“Gabriel,” Aziraphale said, as softly as he could manage, “do you have any powers left at all?” He watched as the archangel shifted, then crossed his arms over his chest. Gabriel stared at the floor, unresponsive.

“I’ll admit that mine are totally gone, and I’ve no idea why,” offered Aziraphale. He chanced a look at Crowley, and reached out to grasp the demon’s hand. The demon was staring hard at Gabriel, as if ready to pounce. Aziraphale didn’t want Crowley’s rage to ruin this.

“Ha,” ejected Gabriel. “You don’t know why, do you? At least I got one thing going for me.” His eyes were looking suspiciously glassy.

“I was rather hoping you could tell me, Gabriel. Despite our differences in the past, we now seem to be in the same boat.” Aziraphale had no idea how to get through to the broken archangel, but he’d had some luck getting through to a broken demon, so he utilized some things that had worked on Crowley. He arranged his features into the most woebegone look he could, and tried to summon up a few tears. He forced a crack in his voice. “Gabriel, I’m completely lost. Please tell me what you know. I’m begging you, as my superior, please help me.” 

Aziraphale watched Gabriel’s jaw work. He could tell Crowley had turned to look at him aghast, but continued on. “Has God turned her back on all of us? Is that it?”

“All of us?” Gabriel tried to laugh, but it came out as an empty huff. “Have you watched the news, lately, Aziraphale?” 

Aziraphale should his head. “I’ve read the papers…” he admitted, trailing off.

“Uh huh,” continued Gabriel. “Seen any signs of the world falling apart, have you?”

“Well, no. The news seems … “ Aziraphale thought it over, carefully. “It seems … “

“Normal?” Gabriel seemed amused. “Or perhaps, even slightly better than normal?”

“Well, there are always pockets of suffering, naturally,” Aziraphale trailed off. But now that he thought of it, he had noticed a slight uptick in feel-good stories in his daily paper.

“God hasn’t turned her back on all of us, Aziraphale.” Gabriel just seemed angry, now. “And of course our beloved demons seem to be as powerful as ever. Isn’t that true, dear?” He turned to face Beelzebub, who reached a hand out to smooth Gabriel’s hair. He jerked away from her, then turned back to Aziraphale. “What about your beloved, Aziraphale? Have his powers diminished?”

Aziraphale shook his head, slowly. Crowley glowered.

“So the humans seem to be fine, the demons are the same as always, but you and I are down in the gutter. Along with Michael, Uriel, Sandalphon…” he started ticking off names on his fingers.

_ Aha _ , thought Aziraphale. “What about Metatron?” Aziraphale was angling to find out what explanation God might have given them for this turn of events, and Metatron would be the most likely to know.

Gabriel chuckled. “Good old Metatron. Last I saw him, he was crying into a bowl down at the local soup kitchen. Said She’d told him that his position was eliminated. Isn’t that a hoot? Always hated that two-faced  _ scribe _ …” Gabriel trailed off into a mumbled rant.

“So, all of Heaven, then?” Aziraphale wanted to make sure he understood.

“Lock, stock and barrel. Seraphim, Virtues, and Archangels. Even the pearly gates are gone. And just so you know, I blame you and your boyfriend for all of it.” Gabriel’s fists were clenched.

Crowley growled low again, and began to rise from his seat. Aziraphale was still holding his hand, and he squeezed it  _ hard _ . Crowley stopped and sat back down, but kept his demonic focus on Gabriel. Gabriel just sneered at them both. Beelzebub watched carefully, ready to spring into action but seemingly willing to let this play out.

Aziraphale ignored Gabriel’s last statement, and went back to the earlier thread of their conversation. “So God told Metatron that his position was eliminated? Did She give him a reason?”

“Reason? Since when does She give anybody  _ reasons _ ?” Gabriel looked incredulous. “You must be even dumber than I thought.”

“I see,” Aziraphale murmured. “So, are all the angels human, now?”

“Human?” Gabriel just looked confused for a moment. “Why do you think we’re human?”

“Well, you have to eat now, don’t you? You can’t miracle anything, can you? What else would we be?”

Gabriel laughed. “Human. We’re not  _ human _ human, Aziraphale. That’d be a bit much, even for Her,” he shuddered. “We all got stuck in whatever form we were in when She decided to flip the switch. Zadkiel was doing a stint as a flamingo, of all things, when it happened. Isn’t that hilarious?” Gabriel threw his head back and laughed in what seemed like genuine amusement. “A flamingo, what a sense of humor She has.”

“Bloody wonderful, She is,” murmured Crowley.

“So,” Aziraphale continued on, determined to get to the bottom of this, “We’re still immortal, essentially?”

Gabriel stilled. Beelzebub’s face twisted into an extraordinarily painful expression, even for her. “Seems so,” was his only response.

“I see,” whispered Aziraphale. He did see. And felt true sorrow for Gabriel, mixed with a relieved happiness as he squeezed Crowley’s hand.

A few moments of tense silence passed. Despite learning that imminent death wasn’t something he had to worry about, Aziraphale was still feeling quite human and more drained every minute.

“And we have no way of getting in touch with Her, then? Finding out what she might be playing at?” Aziraphale wanted to make sure he knew absolutely everything before Gabriel got tired of dealing with him, once and for all.

“What are you gonna do, pick up the phone?” Gabriel mocked.

Aziraphale sighed deeply. He had no idea how to move forward with this information. Beelzebub finally spoke up, and Aziraphale noted with sadness that she seemed to have real tears on her cheeks.

“Aziraphale, you promised you could help Gabriel. We’ve told you everything you wanted to know. Please, what can we do?’

Aziraphale reached into his backpack and drew out his therapist’s business card. “This is step one,” he told them.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

An hour later, the lines of fatigue on Gabriel’s face had turned into deep creases. Aziraphale knew that his own face must look a similar state. He felt exhausted in every cell of his body. He’d brought out the tea and biscuits from his backpack and shared them around, once he’d started relating all of the suggestions gleaned from his reading and Ms. Scott.

During the hour, Aziraphale had periodically glanced at Crowley, who looked alternatively completely amused or completely disgusted.  _ Still better than rage _ , thought Aziraphale.

Aziraphale still had advice to give, not to mention questions about the entire chain of events that had transpired, but didn’t think he had it in him to continue this meeting. Gabriel was defiant, and swore that he would not, under any circumstances, follow any of the suggestions that Aziraphale provided. Even when Aziraphale suggested that Gabriel leave Hell for a more amenable climate, Gabriel resisted. 

“I’m a bigger target than you ever were, Aziraphale,” sneered Gabriel. You’re all fine and dandy tucked away in your quaint little bookshop. Some of us don’t have that luxury. All of Hell would be after me out there.” He seemed unwilling to budge and even begin to help himself. He was even more convinced that there was absolutely nothing that either of them could do about their predicament, and no way to convince God to give them their powers back.

Beelzebub seemed resigned, and beyond attempting to help Gabriel. She simply sat, eyes dry and unfocused, and remained silent. Aziraphale knew that any further discussion, at least today, was useless. He also knew that his nerves were so frayed that the trip back out of Hell would be excruciating.

“Well, it seems we are at an impasse,” Aziraphale admitted. “I suppose, Lord Beelzebub, if you’ve no other suggestions, it’s best to lead us out of here and out of your way.”

Beelzebub nodded dully. Gabriel jumped up and threw the gnawed chicken bone into the corner. “I wish I could say it’s been fun, but, you know,” he ground out, seeming too tired for any of his earlier swagger. “Have a safe trip, boys, and please, don’t come again.”

Aziraphale stared at him, suddenly tired of being compassionate. “As you wish, Gabriel. I’ll be sure to let God know, when I find her and get to the bottom of this, that you’ve no interest in hearing from us again.”  _ Unnecessary _ , Aziraphale thought to himself,  _ but satisfying _ .

Gabriel turned on a heel and escaped into the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind him. Beelzebub walked without a word to the door and lifted her hand to the knob. She paused for a moment, listening.

“Do you hear that,” said Crowley. The other two nodded.

“This is going to be ugly,” said Beelzebub.

None of them had noticed, being so engrossed in their tense conversation, that the low hum of moaning had been gradually increasing outside the door. It now sounded quite healthy and Aziraphale heard a few chants in between the moans that sounded suspiciously like “Crowley.”

All of Aziraphale’s muscles tightened. He grabbed Crowley’s hand.

“Can’t you… can’t you miracle us out of here, Crowley?” Aziraphale was desperate.

“If only,” moaned Crowley. “Beelz has figured out how to lock down any miracling in the throne room, so nobody can take over the big chair while she’s in here with her pretty young thing.”

Beelzebub just looked at them both, dead-eyed, and shrugged. “Seems like it’s your funeral, boys, so best we get on with it.” She opened the door. Quick as anything, Crowley and Aziraphale found themselves shoved out of the room. They heard the door slam behind them. Beelzebub had decided to feed them to the wolves.

Before them stood a crowd of demons, hundreds of them. Moaning and wriggling and lurching. And relentlessly, in a disunified and discordant chorus, chanting Crowley’s name.


	6. Crowley Intends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley changes everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Down in the valley on a foggy little rock  
> Stood a crazy little demon blowing his top  
> Fire in his eyes and smoke from his head  
> You gotta be real cool to hear the words he said” - - Screamin’ Jay Hawkins

Crowley knew he had an anger problem.

In fact, if he were being honest with himself, his anger problem was likely much more dangerous than the depression and trauma that his own dear Zira was trying desperately to recover from.

Crowley wasn’t about to admit that to himself, however, especially not when he had so many things to do. Important things like help Zira get better, and torture Sandalphon, and hunt down God Herself.

So, Crowley did what damaged beings generally do when they’re trying to survive. He stuffed the anger down, held it inside of himself, and only let go of manageable bits of rage now and then.

This meant that somewhere, deep inside Crowley’s human form, deep inside Crowley’s snake form, and deep inside Crowley’s demonic soul, three potent brews were bubbling. These three ingredients,once united, could form a weapon capable of altering the course of not only his existence, but everyone else’s.

Crowley wasn’t conscious of this fact, of course. Few beings whose soul is capable of altering the makeup of the universe are aware of their own power.

In Crowley’s mind, he was simply an ordinary demon. Cast down through no real fault of his own, but cast down nonetheless. And so, as his rage built day by day throughout the millennia of his existence, he accepted it as normal. He had nothing else to compare it to. He wasn’t really on chatty terms with the rest of the demons, and talking directly to God about it was right out. So, as one does, he went about his life; dutifully inflicting pain and suffering on others, and feeling that pain and suffering doubled back upon himself. After enough time, those layers of pain and suffering had clogged every artery, infiltrated every mitochondria, and lined every soul-fiber of his being.

It was a matter of time, really, before he exploded. He’d come closest to it the night after he’d found his Zira lying nearly dead on the kitchen floor. That was a near miss. No being in any realm, angelic, demonic, or human, knew how close of a call that night had been. Nobody, except perhaps for Her.

It was likely chance that kept a lid on him that night. Chance, and a small sliver of himself that still held back, still had a foot in the world of hope, still dreamed of a life worth living. Still believed that despite it all, it might be possible. Yes, it was most likely chance and hope. Or it could have been Her. Who could tell the difference, when it came right down to it.

At the point when Beelzebub abandoned Crowley and Aziraphale to the horde, and when the demons of Hell began to descend on them, Crowley’s last sliver of hope vaporized like smoke. All he knew at that moment was that he was about to be destroyed, and that he could not think of one single way out of it. The raw materials of the weapon were finally united, there in that moment when all of his hope was lost.

A weapon, once assembled, only requires two basic things in order to be effective. The first is a target, and the second is an ignition source.

Strangely, when the demons came for Crowley, it wasn’t particularly with an eye toward his destruction. There was no way for Crowley to know that, of course. And there wasn’t really any way for the demons to know it either. They were acting on an instinct that went deeper than the urge to destroy, to maim, to tempt, or to sin. They were moving together as one mass of bodies, a collective consciousness, its sole purpose to obey a deep call originating from somewhere within their souls. They were the target.

The igniter was Aziraphale. 

As Crowley watched the horde advance, he shoved Aziraphale behind him. Crowley was simply doing what he felt was his purpose in life: protect Aziraphale. At that moment, he forgot any concern for his own self completely. His soul had already resolved, many hundreds of years ago, that it was forfeit if it meant securing Aziraphale’s safety. If he’d had any holy water to hand, he’d have sprayed it on every single demon in that throne room, and gladly died in the process if necessary.

He knew that of all the ridiculous items Aziraphale had brought in that blessed backpack, holy water was not one of them. And so, he knew the only weapon left to protect Aziraphale was Crowley himself.

He shielded Aziraphale with his body, and for a moment this was enough. Crowley snarled, he scratched, and he fought off demon after demon as each approached him in turn. He knew, in the logical portion of his demonic brain, that he couldn’t win this. He also knew, in the faith portion of his demonic soul, that every moment of his life had led him to this. This was his penance, this was Her final joke on him. To die at the hands of these beings that he was a part of but so very different from. He would die trying, and failing, to defend the only good thing his soul had ever managed to hold on to.

The demons were relentless. Crowley could feel, with a roaring pain in his heart, Aziraphale clinging to him in decidedly unholy terror. Crowley’s attacks against the horde redoubled, as if Aziraphale’s terror was his driving force. It was, at least as far as Crowley’s attempts to physically combat the demons went.

There was another driving force, however, that was about to make itself known. Aziraphale wasn’t aware of it, and Crowley had forgotten it in his blinding rage, but it was still there; waiting, watching, ready for its chance to step forward and light the match that would set off the weapon heard ‘round the universe.

Amidst the noise of fists flailing, demons moaning, Aziraphale’s whimpering, and Crowley’s screaming, a soft ping sounded.

It was the sound of gold hitting concrete. More particularly, a golden ring hitting a concrete floor. Even more particularly, a golden ring, made to fit an angel’s finger, and carried next to Crowley’s heart since the day he woke up from his long nap, hitting the concrete floor of Hell.

 _This_ , breathed the universe, this was the moment. This was the moment when God would arch an eyebrow, uncross her ankles, and allow Her plan to luxuriously unfurl.

Crowley heard the ping. Not with his human ears, because human ears weren’t made that way. He may have heard it with a snake’s way of hearing, which probably involved vibrations and bones and other ineffable things. He absolutely heard it with his soul, and accordingly dropped to the floor.

For one solitary minute, he became a snake. A snake slithering underfoot the trampling of demons, its body twisting impossibly this way and that, creating patterns and designs of itself that were too quick to be seen or understood. In that one minute, the snake surveyed the entire floor of the throne room, sighted the ring, slithered over to it, and reformed as a human-shaped demon.

The human-shaped demon picked the ring up and observed it; almost as if he had found a priceless ancient coin on the ground, plucked it out of the dust, and stood in awe at its value.

This single minute of absence from Aziraphale meant that the angel was defenseless long enough for the horde to decide he was easy prey.

An angel with his powers inspires awe and terror. Capable of immense strength and unshakeable belief, an angel with his powers is unbeatable — unless he wants to be beaten.

An angel without his powers, however, is a pitiful thing. He is small, and scared, and mewling. It takes but a single moment for a force of beings to overpower an angel without his powers, and to send him from this plane of existence to whatever other plane of existence might remain after.

Luckily for Aziraphale (was it luck, really?), a single moment is thirty seconds longer than a solitary minute.

Crowley lunged for Aziraphale. He beat away demons with what seemed to them like an infinite number of arms, fingers, and long, sharp nails. Crowley lunged for Aziraphale, and wrapped his arms around him, and held him. In the final seconds before Aziraphale would have been dragged under the horde, Crowley lifted his angel’s hand and slipped the golden ring on his angel’s finger.

It didn’t really matter that it was the wrong finger. Didn’t matter that the ring wasn’t sized for that finger, and thus hung loosely on the angel’s hand. What mattered was the intention. “I intend,” Crowley whispered into Aziraphale’s ear. That was all he had time to say. It was heard by none but felt by all.

 _I intend._ If Crowley’d had more time, he would have whispered to Aziraphale: 

I intend to guard, to protect, to watch, to care for. I intend to hope, to cherish, to honor, to delight. I intend to be kind, to be patient, to be true, to persevere. I intend that every molecule of rage stored in my being will be changed into a molecule of love for you. I intend to become something that God Herself never dreamed of.

And that was it, really. Everything after that was simply fallout.

A pulse of something, starting from the ring that Crowley had placed on Aziraphale’s finger, grew as it expanded. Outward, through Aziraphale; through Crowley; through the demon horde. Downward, through the layers of hell beneath them; upward, through the layers of earth above them; north, and south, and east, and west, through Dagon and Hastur and Beelzebub and Gabriel and Metatron and Sandalphon and poor flamingo-Zadkiel and God Herself.

It was the pulse of a new life force, a force that had been brewing in Crowley’s body and soul since the moment a tempting snake met a bumbling angel on the walls of the Garden of Eden.

It had been forged through a flood, through Golgotha, through the eighteenth century. It had been honed by exquisitely solitary suffering, guilt, and rage. It had been perfected by love.

It was the force of one demon, holding his beloved angel, and daring to say to God: _Enough_. 

One demon, proclaiming to God, with no room left for doubt or question in his heart: We are not doing it your way, not ever again. From now on, we are doing it our way.

As this pulse sped its way through the halls of Hell, demons began, for no reason that they could fathom, to stop feeling their relentless desire to maim, and to start feeling something else. They stopped, and looked at themselves, and looked at each other, curious and confused. It felt to them like the smallest of shifts, but the smallest of shifts are where everything begins.

The pulse sped its way across the earth, through every being, shifting a pain or an annoyance or a guilt just slightly; just enough for the being to feel a tiny bit better. Not enough to create world peace, but perhaps enough to prompt the question: ‘Still? Are we fighting each other still?’

And the pulse sped its way through the remnants of heaven, shifting them too. It remained to be seen how they would react to it. Although at least Zadkiel wasn’t a flamingo anymore. 

One particular remnant of heaven, currently being held in the arms of an erstwhile demon, had just enough energy left to very cleverly deduce that his demon … his Crowley, the one being who truly loved him, had just saved them both from death, saved the Earth from Hell, and saved Heaven from itself. After Aziraphale made that deduction, he burst into exhausted tears and begged Crowley to miracle him home.

As far as Crowley was concerned, no limitations on his power existed anymore; not even those devised by the Lord of the Flies herself. As a result, Aziraphale’s request was immediately obeyed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Upstairs from a bookshop in Soho, an Aziraphale and a Crowley were asleep. After Crowley had miracled them straight from the throne room directly onto their bed, they had lain there, each in pain, each in shock.

Aziraphale, tears still wet on his cheeks, had gasped when he saw the extent of Crowley’s injuries. The demon was a sight, covered in scratches and bruises and welts and who knew what else. Aziraphale had immediately reached into his backpack, still an ugly black nylon thing, and drawn out the first aid kit.

Aziraphale had spent the next few hours tending to Crowley, who was too battered to protest. Every ointment and bandage in the kit was put to use. Every time Aziraphale patched up a wound, he placed a feather-light kiss on Crowley’s lips. Crowley didn’t protest that either.

Eventually, bandaged and kissed and comforted and loved, the pair fell asleep with their fingertips touching.

After two days, Crowley awoke. He had a powerful thirst. He opened the one eye that wasn’t swollen shut to check on Aziraphale. The angel was there, still sleeping, still a mess, but there. Crowley moaned as he tried to move.

Aziraphale’s eyes opened. They widened in shock at Crowley’s bruised and swollen face. “Crowley,” he cried in shock. “Crowley, my dear, you look terrible.”

Crowley mumbled into the pillow. “You look wonderful, Zira. Don’t suppose you could get an ugly old thing a drink, could you?”

Aziraphale, chastened, headed to the sink to fill a glass with water. As he walked back to Crowley, he looked down at the state of his own battered and bruised self. He handed the water glass to Crowley, who drank it down fast. “If you think I look wonderful, my dear, I do believe we need to get your eyes checked. Do you need more?”

Crowley nodded. “Please, Zira. Sorry to say you may be taking care of this ugly old demon for longer than you might like.” Crowley groaned as he tried to readjust himself on the bed.

Aziraphale tended to Crowley for a week, until the demon’s strength returned and he was able to miracle the rest of his pains away.

During that week, Aziraphale spent a lot of time sitting beside the bed, keeping watch, and twirling the golden ring on his finger; the same finger that Crowley had placed it on. Aziraphale had not even thought to remove it, until Crowley told him on day five of his convalescence that it was engraved.

Aziraphale cried a soft “Oh!” of surprise, and immediately removed the ring to read the words on the inside of the band: ‘ZIRA, ETERNALLY YOURS, CROWLEY.’

“The engraver said your name had too many letters to fit, so I shortened it. Could have miracled it to make it work, but…” Crowley continued, shyly. “I liked the idea of having a special name that only I called you.”

“Oh, Crowley,” breathed Aziraphale. He didn’t speak for some time.

“Does that mean you’ll keep it,” asked Crowley.

Aziraphale slowly slid the ring back onto his hand, and onto the correct finger this time. He couldn’t think of a single clever thing to say.

“Yes, my love, I’ll keep it,” was the response he decided on. It seemed to satisfy Crowley.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

EPILOGUE

Happiness has a way of creeping in and settling into hearts. Simple things like a shared flat, and shared breakfasts, and shared kisses, tend to break down walls that have been built for years, or centuries, or millennia.

In time, Crowley’s anger begins to soften around the edges. He can’t say for certain that he will leave Sandalphon and God Herself alone, without doling out the retribution he feels they deserve. He does derive a certain comfort, however, in waking up each morning to his Zira’s smile and in their own shared bed, and therefore doesn’t plan anything just yet.

In time, Aziraphale’s trauma and heartache starts to heal. It’s a long journey, but he knows that he can stop worrying about being left to fend for himself when the days get rough. He has a protector, now. There may come a day when he feels it’s time to bring God to account, but for now he’s too busy redecorating a small cottage for two by the sea.

In time, Ms. Scott finds herself with a new client, possibly her most challenging case yet. When he mentions certain words like _principality_ or _apocalypse_ during his therapy sessions, she doesn’t even flinch.

In time, former angels learn that self-righteousness really isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, and that humility is one of the hardest virtues.

In time, former demons learn that with great power comes great responsibility, and there is little pleasure to be had in stirring up trouble when no one is around to punish you for it.

And in time, humans learn that they have more similarities than differences, and that the whole point of living is to enjoy life ... and enjoy it together.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [What Do I Do?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19948792) by [Primarina (PastelBrachypelma)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PastelBrachypelma/pseuds/Primarina)




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